


Calimport

by Svartalfhild



Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Humor, Post-Throne of Bhaal, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Svartalfhild/pseuds/Svartalfhild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rasaad yn Bashir once promised the woman who is now his wife that he would show her the City of Glory when the Bhaalspawn crisis was over.  That time has come at last and it doesn't go the way either of them expect it to.  As it turns out, branding yourselves "travelers" and not "adventurers" does not prevent adventure from finding you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is something of a character/relationship study of my Charname and Rasaad. It details what happened between the end of Throne of Bhaal and the beginning of what is laid out in Rasaad's romance epilogue. There will be no explicit sexual material at any point (though lots of implied things), but there will be discussion of various mental illnesses, including PTSD, and intense violence (though nothing too graphic).

Hour 9 Uktar 18, 1370 DR

There was something utterly splendid about the normalcy of being awoken by the sound of chirping birds. That's what Syrin thought, anyway, as she sat up and rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes. Two years of a life that had seen her waking up early in the morning in a cold sweat, shaking from nightmares, had caused her to almost forget what ordinary felt like.

The singing of birds and the content sensation of a good night's rest was almost worthy of a few tears of joy in that moment, but Syrin was not the sort of person to shed tears. Her pale, elven features betrayed little of what she was feeling. There was no reason for her to wear this mask, nor anyone to wear it for at the moment, alone in the room as she was, but it was a difficult habit to break. In fact, there were many habits she possessed which were completely unnecessary in her peaceful cabin room, all a result of two years spent wondering if the next moment would be her last. Months of living quietly in one place hadn't been enough to change that.

Syrin eyed the twin swords that sat atop the nearby table and reminded herself that today she was supposed to start afresh. Today would officially mark a new chapter of her life, and with any luck, a better one. Today, she was going to marry the man she loved. As she thought of him, her angular cheeks tinted pink and her fingertips touched the tiny silver charm which hung from her neck on a fine chain. The little hollow circle with its four rays was a symbol of not just Selûne, but of her beloved's kindness and sincerity. Whenever she touched it, she was reminded that that there were those who genuinely cared about her. One of those people chose this moment to come bursting into the cabin.

"Syrin!" a pink haired human woman sang out cheerfully, paying no mind to the poor door, which had nearly fallen off its hinges. "Rise and shine, sister! It's a beautiful day and you're getting married to the best abs in Toril!"

"Imoen, I hope you don't think I'm marrying him for his perfectly sculpted body," Syrin replied with a sigh, not quite realizing what she had said until her sister gave her a knowing grin. "Alright, I may like that quality about him, but to me, he is first and foremost a good man," she then admitted, thankfully not stuttering in the process.

"I know. I just thought you could use a little reminder of the more tangible things, since you tend to get wrapped up in your philosophizing." The young woman perched herself on the end of the dining table as she spoke, still bearing a grin, and let her legs swing back and forth underneath her.

"What, were you afraid I was going to spend so much time sitting around, thinking about today, that I'd actually miss my own wedding?" Syrin challenged, quirking an eyebrow.

"You were definitely at risk. Look at you. You're still in your night things. You've only got a little time left to make yourself all pretty."

"Are you saying I'm not normally pretty? Some sister you are."

"I hate to break it to you, but you're a lumpy toadstool," Imoen deadpanned, but then broke down after a moment of heavy staring between them and let out a string of giggles. Syrin followed with her riotous cackles, throwing her head back in her mirth. Just as it was becoming hard to breathe, another woman entered the cabin.

"What is going on in here?" came the strict tones of none other than the druid warrior Jaheira. She wore a heavy scowl on her sharp features that had always been able to force Syrin and Imoen to settle down and now was no exception. Syrin almost immediately schooled her face into a serious expression, but Imoen had some difficulty in doing the same, her smile refusing to die, leading to some interesting facial twitching.

"Nothing to worry about. We were just having a laugh," Syrin answered calmly. This seemed to satisfy Jaheira, because the older woman's frown faded and she held up a small wicker basket, the contents of which were covered in a cloth.

"Good. I've brought you a proper breakfast." The druid handed off the basket to Syrin, who found it filled with a half loaf of fresh bread and a plentiful array of nuts and berries, which had no doubt been picked on the way up to the cabin. Imoen did not look too impressed, probably wondering how anything that didn't include eggs and sausage could be considered a proper breakfast, but Syrin, a ranger who very much believed in avoiding taking from other animals if at all possible, thought it was perfect.

"Thank you, Jaheira. It looks lovely." The half-elf's eyes softened at this genuine expression of thanks and a smile even played at the corners of her lips. Syrin suspected it was a moment of motherly affection. After all, Jaheira had been something of a mother figure to her ever since Gorion's death and it wasn't too much of a stretch at all to assume that Jaheira thought of herself as such, especially given how she had been acting in the tendays leading up to this day. "Did you bring anything to make me pretty? Imoen and I were just discussing how much I resemble a fungus." This earned Imoen a sharp look from Jaheira, but the pink haired woman shrugged it off lightheartedly, signaling that Syrin was not actually offended.

"As it happens, I've...brought you something rather special for the occasion." From her satchel, Jaheira produced a carefully folded piece of pure white cloth that rivaled Syrin's silvery hair for brightness, though it was far more elegant than her wild, wavy bob. The elf stared at it in wonder as it was placed in her hands. With one finger, she traced the intricate vine motif embroidered in silver thread along the edge.

"What is it?" Imoen asked simply, also looking rather intrigued by the beauty of the thing.

"It's...it's the veil I wore when I married Khalid." This admission brought expressions of shock to both the younger women's faces.

"Jaheira, I can't-" Syrin began, but the druid cut her off.

"I want you to have it," she insisted in a firm tone that quite clearly indicated that she would not be swayed on this.

"Thank you. It's very beautiful," Syrin responded with a soft smile.

"I can't wait to see you wear this, Syrin," Imoen commented, fingering the fabric.

"We have much work to do before then, so have your breakfast and let us begin," Jaheira reminded and Syrin dutifully tucked into her meal.

* * *

It was rather surprising the way the time seemed to fly by as Imoen and Jaheira fussed over Syrin's appearance. She was not used to such pampering, practical woman as she was. The only purely cosmetic habit she had ever had was her penchant for outlining her eyes with thick black ink, which her companions insisted she tone down for this occasion. They spent hours braiding autumn flowers into her short, silver white hair and debating over what jewelry she should wear, though it didn't matter terribly to Syrin.

To be honest, the ranger didn't see why the wedding had to be such a big affair. It seemed like a rather private thing that need not be shared with the entire village. Alas, that was not the way of things. She was the Ranger of Imnesvale and the villagers insisted on a public wedding for their official. The more Syrin thought about it, the more nervous she became, though she continued to wear a serene smile on her lips, nodding passively at whatever Jaheira was saying about the sleeves of her white gown.

When midday arrived and Imoen finally held up a mirror to show Syrin how she looked, the ranger realized just how out of her element she was. She almost didn't recognize herself but for the ice coloured eyes staring back at her. She didn't look like a woman who spent her days crawling through undergrowth, observing the world without being detected. She looked like some sort of Evereskan noble who was meant to be seen and admired. Taking a deep breath was all she could do not to break out in a nervous sweat at the thought of so many eyes on her. She didn't do public attention. It was one of the most uncomfortable things she could think of.

"When he sees you, he'll think you're Selûne incarnate," Imoen told her brightly, snapping her thoughts back to whole point of these festivities. Maybe if she focused her mind on him, she would make it through this without melting into a puddle of embarrassment.

"Well, I was actually almost a god once," Syrin replied with a small laugh, adding in her head that she was getting married precisely because she hadn't chosen to become a god.

"Now you can have your cake and eat it too," Imoen pointed out playfully, though Jaheira, as usual, took the topic much more seriously.

"You made the right decision, Syrin. I'm proud of you," the druid said, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder.

"I know. I know. I'm never going to have second thoughts about it. Trust me." This earned Syrin's shoulder a squeeze and a brief smile.

"Come then. It is time."

The next few minutes would later be something of a blur in Syrin's memory, muddled by high levels of excitement and anxiety. She followed Imoen and Jaheira from the cabin and they came to flank her as they made their way to the village center, making sure as they went that Syrin's gown didn't get wet or snag on anything. The whole village had turned out to watch, as if this was the coronation of a queen or something. Really, it was not that many people, small as Imnesvale was, but it certainly seemed like a huge crowd to Syrin at the time.

Then she saw him, standing there, waiting like a statue, clad in white robes. His brown eyes lit up like nothing else the moment he caught sight of her. Before she could register what was happening, her thin fingers were enveloped in his large, warm hands. She didn't realize how hard she was smiling until her cheeks began to hurt. The portly man who was officiating the ceremony began to speak, but Syrin was only half listening until it came time to make the vows, as her thoughts were in a loop of "by the gods, this is actually happening".

"Do you, Rasaad yn Bashir, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, and promise to love and protect her, in this life and beyond?"

"I do," Rasaad answered, not breaking eye contact with Syrin for even a second.

"And do you, Syrin A'Gorion, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, and promise to love and protect him, in this life and beyond?"

"I do." It came out almost a whisper, but it was thankfully loud enough for Rasaad and the officiator to hear.

"Then by the power vested in me, before these witnesses, I pronounce you husband and wife." Syrin felt cool metal slide down her finger and Imoen pressed a ring into her other palm, which she deftly placed on Rasaad's hand. "You may now kiss." Slowly, but gently, Rasaad pulled away the veil that covered all but Syrin's eyes. In a burst of impatience, she took the initiative and stood on the tips of her toes to collide her lips with his. She tuned out the sound of the others cheering and the tickle of the shower of flower petals now raining down on her and her new husband. This was too happy a moment for her to care about anything but the source of that happiness.

It wasn't until Imoen elbowed her that it became apparent that she had been rendered momentarily oblivious to the rest of the world, because she had been locking lips with Rasaad for somewhat longer than was considered proper. When the pair pulled back from each other, Syrin noted that Rasaad had gone a bit red. For her part, Jaheira looked like she had witnessed an intimacy that she wished she hadn't.

"Alright! Let's party!" Imoen exclaimed and the crowd whooped and suddenly everything was a whirlwind of people, flowers, food, and drink.

"Shall we dance?" Syrin asked Rasaad, offering him her hand. He took it with a playful smile.

"If my lady wishes it," he said, kissing her knuckles.

"I dare say she does." With that, they began to jump, slide, and spin with each other to the beat of the tune the bards were playing, along with many of the villagers. Rasaad was just as graceful in this as he was in combat and Syrin did her best to keep up with him, but there was a marked difference between fighting with two swords and the steps required of a jig. Twice, she nearly fell, but Rasaad kept a firm hold on her and ensured that she didn't embarrass herself.

"You look beautiful," he commented, as if he had heard her think of what a disgrace she was to the elven race for her lack of elegance.

"You know, I'm not sure I'll ever get used to hearing that," she sighed.

"Then I will tell you every day until you do." She knew that he'd do it too. She had never met anyone more sincere. "You are as a star, Syrin." That was enough to make her blush.

"And you're a huge, muscly teddy bear," she responded, poking him in the chest.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're a big softy and the sweetest man I know, but you could singlehandedly level an entire orc camp if the mood struck you. You're honestly a heartthrob."

"Such words from you are a high compliment indeed. I'm humbled." Syrin couldn't help but let out a small, self-deprecating laugh at this.

"Don't be. I'm most definitely not without my faults." These words summoned a look of concern in Rasaad's eyes and he stopped dancing for a moment, pulling Syrin aside and gripping her shoulders firmly.

"Do not let your thoughts wander down that path; I beg you. You are everything that is precious to me and I do not wish to see you unhappy, especially on this day of all days," he told her quietly, his tone quite serious. It was a testament to his wise nature that he had immediately detected the underlying darkness in her comment. His right hand came up to her cheek and she closed her eyes, savouring the warmth in the gesture.

"You should give yourself more credit for being such a good man, Rasaad."

"Syrin..." Damn. Well, she never had been able to get anything past him. She should have known better by now than to try a deflection.

"I know; I'm sorry. Come on, let's keep dancing. It'll chase away my darker thoughts."

"Very well." Adjusting his hold on Syrin, Rasaad pulled them back into motion.

For the rest of the day, the monk did everything in his power to make his wife smile, and smile she did, especially after a little mead. She forgot her anxieties for a time and danced until her body burned with exhaustion and she sang her heart out to any tune the bards would consent to play. The wind of the hills caressed her face, carrying her lovely alto notes above the rest and she felt _alive_.

By dusk, she was so worn out that she had to rely on Rasaad for support and didn't have enough energy left to be much embarrassed at the suggestive comments made by others about the newlyweds as the last light of the sun disappeared.

"Selûne watches us tonight," Rasaad remarked as he and Syrin sat on a log and gazed up at the clear sky, which held a full moon and innumerable stars.

"That she has. I remember you once saying that you hoped we would one day bask in full moonlight together. Well, here we are." Syrin had to admit that there was something intensely satisfying and reassuring about a dream of someone she loved coming into reality.

"I am willing to admit that this was not quite what I imagined when I said that to you."

"Oh? What did you imagine, then?" Syrin inquired teasingly, causing Rasaad to become flustered in the way she had always found endearing.

"W-Well, I...my feelings w-were young then..." he stammered, clearly struggling to explain himself in a way that wouldn't come out wrong.

"Why don't you show me what you were thinking of?" Syrin suggested, smirking up at him.

"Yes, perhaps I should." Leaning in, he captured her lips with his own and she hummed in delight. She would have threaded her fingers in his hair if he had had any. It had always amaze her how his kisses could be so polite and reserved and yet make her burst with affection for him.

"What do you hope for us now that we're officially a unit?" Syrin asked, resting her forehead against Rasaad's and lacing their fingers together.

"I do not think this is the appropriate place for me to show you that," he replied, his brown eyes alight in a way Syrin would have called a leer if it had been anyone else.

"Why don't you take me to an appropriate place? I'm sure no one would mind that we've gone. They're all quite engrossed in the party and will carry on just fine without us." Rasaad chuckled lightly at this and got to his feet, pulling Syrin with him.

"As always, you know my mind before I have spoken."

"Well then, give me a five minute head start and then catch me if you can." The elf tapped the end of Rasaad's nose with her forefinger, grinned mischievously, and then sped off in the direction of her cabin. She knew she didn't stand a chance against the monk, even with a head start, but that was rather the point, and somehow that filled her with adrenaline all the more and allowed her once tired limbs to carry her at top speed between the trees and over the hills. She splashed recklessly across streams, no longer caring about the state of her dress. The autumn night air had a chill to it, but it was welcome against her burning skin.

Syrin had just caught sight of her cabin in the distance when she was suddenly tackled from behind. She let out a cry that quickly morphed into laughter as she went down and tumbled with her pursuer, who matched her mirth as they each struggled to gain the upper hand. It was futile, however, because Rasaad easily outstripped her in raw strength, and so she quickly found herself pinned beneath him.

"Alright, you caught me," she submitted breathlessly. "You can collect your prize."

"You are unhurt?" he checked in a gentle tone.

"Never better," she answered, punctuating the statement with a heated kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Hour 10 Uktar 19, 1370 DR

For what seemed like the first time ever, Syrin had awoken wrapped in a very comfortable combination of bedsheets and Rasaad yn Bashir with no need for her to get up immediately and tend to something urgent. She could just lie there with him for hours if she so desired and there would be no consequences, and so she had. They spoke quietly to each other about things of little import and Rasaad ran his fingers through Syrin's hair, which he had often compared to moonlight, while she idly traced the lines of his tattoos.

“So...honeymoon. Where are we going?” she asked casually. They hadn't planned this far ahead, although that had had some idea of traveling rather than staying home and getting drunk on mead for a month.

“Anywhere you desire.” The first thing that came to mind was Candlekeep. Syrin would have liked to show her husband the place where she had grown up with Imoen under better circumstances than last time. Then it occurred to her that there were quite a number of reasons why Candlekeep was not a viable option, not least of which was the fact that they had no means of getting into the place. Her mind wandered for a moment, going through every place she had ever told herself she must see one day. And then the answer came and it seemed painfully obvious.

“I'd like to see Calimport.” This appeared to take Rasaad somewhat by surprise. His eyes widened for a second and his gaze locked with Syrin's rather intensely. “If you're comfortable with the idea, that is,” the ranger was quick to add, not sure what to make of his expression. He had once offered to take her to Calimport someday, but a lot had happened since then and she was not at all certain he would be willing now.

“It would give me great pleasure to show you my homeland,” he told her and her heart soared. A broad grin spread across her face from pointed ear to pointed ear, coaxing a similar look from the normally somewhat inexpressive monk. “Especially if it will allow me to see that smile.” Overwhelmed with affection for her husband once again, Syrin buried her face in his chest and let out a moan.

“If you don't stop being so sweet, I'm going to arrest you on my authority as Imnesvale's Ranger for disturbing the peace.” To Rasaad's credit, he immediately recognized what she was doing.

“You're teasing me, aren't you?”

“I need to raise my game if you can spot it that quickly now.”

“Please don't- oh. You're doing it again.” Syrin giggled at this, her nose scrunching in mischievous humor. It was an expression only two living souls could attest to having seen. She was not a naturally openly playful person, but Rasaad had the power to bring out that quality in her, which was a testament to how completely comfortable she was with him.

“You're getting rather good at this. I'm proud of you.” She was sure to affect a much more sincere tone this time, as she did actually mean it.

“Thank you. I have had a good teacher.” This earned Rasaad a brief, sloppy kiss before Syrin sat up and gave a long sigh.

“I suppose we should get a move on if we hope to be ready to leave by midday.” The monk nodded in agreement and they set about getting dressed, falling into companionable silence as they so often did.

Syrin had just finished lacing up her leather jerkin and wandered from the bedroom when Imoen once again burst through front door, followed by a displeased Jaheira, who was scolding the young woman about knocking.

“Good morning!” Imoen greeted boisterously.

“I'm sorry, Syrin. I tried to stop her-” Jaheira began in apology before resuming her glaring down of the pink haired human beside her.

“I've got a letter for you from Aerie!” Imoen thrust a carefully folded piece of parchment towards her sister and Syrin finally understood the excitement. Taking the letter, she immediately opened it and read:

 

_Dearest Syrin,_

 

_Greetings from the east! This will probably reach you by the time you're married, so congratulations as well. Minsc and I are sorry to be missing your and Rasaad's wedding. We wish you all the best. Minsc wanted to send a gift, but I explained that pigeons can't carry swords._

_We're doing well. We're at sea now, having found passage on a trade ship heading across the Sea of Fallen Stars from Starmantle to the city of Telflamm on the coast of Thesk. Every day my excitement grows, for Minsc is fond of telling tales of his homeland and the picture he paints is an amazing one. Our journey so far has also been filled with wonders. In the past tenday alone, I have seen more new creatures and cultures than I could ever have imagined. The world is more beautiful than any book can describe, if you stop to look. I hope you can discover that for yourself someday._

_Despite all of this, we miss you and all our other friends terribly. Traveling isn't quite the same without everyone. I miss you reading to me. I miss Rasaad teaching me philosophy. I miss playing games with Imoen. I'm even starting to miss Jaheira's nagging advice. You're all so dear to me. Perhaps someday we will meet again, but in the meantime, please keep in touch._

 

_Lots of love,_

 

_Aerie_

 

_P.S. Minsc wants me to say that Boo sends his love as well and inquire as to whether or not there are bees in your honeymoon._

 

Syrin read the letter again, aloud this time for the benefit of the others, lips twitching upwards at Jaheira's scowl in reaction to the mention of her. Aerie's words warmed the ranger's heart. It was good to be reminded that she had not been forgotten by those who had once been close to her.

“We should let Aerie know that she and Minsc are missed in return,” Rasaad commented, appearing at Syrin's side, now fully dressed. A hint of conflict must have been evident in her eyes, because he then added, “You need not worry about the packing. I will do yours while you write.” Thanking her lucky stars that this man was in her life for what must have been the fifth time in the last 24 hours, Syrin beamed and began to search for a quill and parchment.

“Packing? Where are you going?” Imoen queried, looking slightly alarmed.

“To Calimport, dear sister,” the elf answered as she rifled through a small wooden box.

“Can I come?”

“It's their honeymoon, Imoen. This journey is for them alone,” Jaheira cut in sternly, immediately inducing a hurt expression in the young woman. The sisters had always gone everywhere together, with the exception of the time Imoen had been imprisoned. The idea that Syrin would embark on a journey without her was a foreign concept.

“I'm afraid Jaheira's right, but don't fret. We'll return and, if all goes well, be back in Imnesvale for the Greengrass celebrations.”

“You'll be gone all winter?!” Imoen had gone full wounded puppy, with big, watering eyes and everything. It always worked on Rasaad, as evident by the sudden guilt on his face, but Syrin was much harder to crack, having grown up with this tactic.

“Calimport is quite far south and I should like to stay there for more than one day, so yes, we shall be gone for some time, but as I've said, it's only for a few months. You and Jaheira can hold down the fort for me while I'm gone, since you have the makings of a ranger between the two of you, and I doubt anything momentous will come up in winter anyway,” Syrin said before her husband could buckle under Imoen's Big Blue Eyes of Will Breaking. The young mage was not satisfied.

“But I'll miss you soooo much. I couldn't possibly bear it...”

“Could you bear it if I promised to bring back a gift for you? Something pretty from the bazaar of the City of Glory?” Syrin offered and Imoen appeared to consider for a moment, biting her lip.

“For goodness sake, child. Let them have their time together. Silvanus knows, they've both earned it,” Jaheira cut in again, practically pleading with Imoen to show a little maturity. Syrin was well aware, on the other hand, that her sister was just messing about and didn't seriously expect to get what she wanted.

“I know. I guess I just don't know how to live like a normal person without Syrin.” Imoen spoke then in a completely serious tone, her expression becoming much more reserved. This finally succeeded in earning Jaheira's sympathy, but oddly enough, Rasaad was the first to say something on the matter.

“I felt much the same when I first found myself without my brother,” he admitted solemnly, pausing in the middle of carefully wrapping a loaf of bread. It had been some time since he had last spoken of Gamaz. Syrin had been under the impression that he had been trying put it all behind. “In time, you will learn to hold yourself up.” He punctuated this statement with an encouraging smile, which Imoen echoed weakly.

“Thanks, Rasaad.”

Syrin didn't hear what was said after that, since she was busy scrawling away at a reply to Aerie's letter, her quill flying across the scrap of parchment she was hunched over.

 

_Dear Aerie,_

 

_We are all glad to hear that you are well. Rasaad and I were wed yesterday and we thank you for your congratulations. All of us here in Imnesvale miss you, Minsc, and Boo just as dearly as you miss us. Still, we keep your laughter and Minsc's courage in our hearts and wish you all the best in your new life in Rashemen. I hope that the Rashemi people will accept you as easily as Minsc has, though I know them to be suspicious of elven folk._

_I am delighted that you are getting to see so much of the world and I would love to hear about all of your adventures, as I'm sure you have many stories to tell by now, although I hope that you have not seen too much peril along the way. I have read of vicious pirates in the Sea of Fallen Stars and you will be passing right through their territory. Please know that if you are ever in dire need of help, you have simply to contact me and I will drop everything and come for you, regardless of how far away you may be. I do not forget my friends in their absence. I do hope, however, that if we should meet again, it would be under much more favourable circumstances._

_Rasaad and I will be leaving Imnesvale and heading south for the winter, to his homeland of Calimshan, for I desire to see the city of his birth. It seems that I will have the chance to see something of the world beyond the what lies between and around Baldur's Gate and Tethyr, just as you have, although there is admittedly far less distance between here and Calimport than there is between Amn and Rashemen. You will have seen more in your one way journey than I will see both going and returning on mine, but I think that is just as it should be. There is no one more deserving of such wonders than you, Aerie._

 

_Sincerely,_

 

_Syrin A'Gorion_

 

_P.S. I will inform you if there are any bee related developments._

 

Upon finishing, the ranger read over her work in satisfaction and then folded it up and tucked it into the breast of her jerkin, intending to find a bird to carry it before departing. It was then that her attention was called back to her surroundings by Jaheira addressing her.

“Yes? Where are Rasaad and Imoen?” It had just occurred to Syrin that she and her guardian were now alone in the cabin.

“They went out to get some food for a last meal before you leave.”

“Oh, okay. You don't have to make it sound so final, though, like we're not coming back or something.” Syrin did imagine that Jaheira felt much as Imoen did on the matter, but was simply better at hiding it. The druid's reply took her completely off guard.

“I must speak with you on an important matter.”

“If it's _the talk_ , I'm afraid you, ehm, missed that boat a few seasons ago,” Syrin responded, going a little pink, her eyes filled with the light of panic. Jaheira scowled back until she seemed to realize that the younger woman wasn't trying to be funny.

“No, it's nothing like that,” she told Syrin quietly and the elf visibly relaxed. “There are things I must tell you about traveling south. There are many dangers that you might face. You will pass through my homeland Tethyr again and it is still a highly unstable place after these many months. You would be safest if you kept to the western forest lands. There are druids and other creatures there that are far more likely to aid you should you require it than any law enforcement you might find along the Trade Way. I would also remind you of Sothillis the ogre mage and his ilk, raiding across the south of Amn. You must take every precaution.”

“I understand. Don't worry too much, Jaheira. I know what I'm doing and so does Rasaad,” Syrin assured her guardian, crossing the room to finish the packing.

“That's precisely what worries me. You two have enough good intentions between you to breed a lot of foolish gallantry. You have a habit of walking into peril deliberately, because you value the lives of others over your own.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing to put others first,” Syrin shot back, genuinely shocked and offended that Jaheira would challenge this belief of hers.

“There is a time and a place for everything and it's dangerous to forget that your own life has value,” the druid responded, keeping a level tone. “Promise me that you won't do anything reckless.” Syrin was about to fire back again when it occurred to her that Jaheira had violently lost her family and her husband and was probably extremely afraid that she would have to endure Syrin's death as well. It would be the pain of a parent losing their child for her.

“Very well. You have my promise,” she agreed in resignation, despite the voice in the back of her mind telling her to rebel.

“Thank you.” Jaheira looked genuinely comforted by the fact that Syrin had given her her word, which in turn assured the ranger that she was trusted.

They were saved from the need to say anything further to each other by the return of Rasaad and Imoen, who bore bottles of the local mead and baskets of pastries.

“The blacksmith's daughter made all of these for you!” Imoen explained happily, gesturing to the pastries. “She said it's a wedding gift from her family and she wanted to make sure there was enough for you to take some on your honeymoon with you.”

“That was very kind of her. Please pass on my thanks,” Syrin replied with a grin. “I suppose we should have a few now. I'll admit I'm quite famished.” Imoen raised her eyebrows in knowing amusement at this, glancing between Syrin and Rasaad several times, but thankfully saying nothing as the four of them each took a hand pie. The last thing Syrin wanted was a discussion of exactly how much sex she and her husband had had on their wedding night.

Before long, half the pies had been consumed between the four of them and the newlyweds began to make the last of their preparations to leave. It was at this point that Jaheira started to seem more anxious about the whole thing than Imoen. She went over what supplies they had, intent on ensuring that they had everything they could possibly need, and even went so far as to adjust the clasp of Syrin's cloak like a mother about to send her child out alone for the first time. Imoen did not bother with any of this and simply gave her sister and her brother-in-law each a smothering, tearful hug.

“If you die, I'll kill you,” she murmured to Syrin as they embraced in front of the cabin. They both gave watery laughs.

“Same goes for you,” she told Rasaad when it was his turn. It appeared that he had not expected this, but he quickly recovered from his initial surprise and chuckled.

“Take care of yourself, Imoen,” he told her.

“Don't put any beans up your nose,” Syrin joked, reciting something Gorion had once told them as children when they had gone off to play. Imoen giggled uncontrollably through her sniffling.

“Be careful,” Jaheira stated somberly, “and come back in one piece.”

“We will,” Rasaad promised, taking Syrin's hand in his own.

“Farewell, Jaheira. Farewell, Imoen.” With that the pair turned and walked away, not daring to look back, for fear that they might be pulled back by the sadness of those they left behind.

On their way through the village, they accepted the farewells of its people and Syrin found a hearty pigeon to carry her letter to Aerie before at last setting out into the wilderness proper.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains mention of attempted suicide.

Hour 23 Uktar 30, 1370 DR

It was just beyond a tenday since Syrin and Rasaad had departed from the Umar Hills and begun their journey south towards the City of Glory. The time had passed peacefully. Not even a berrygobbler had given them so much as a dirty look and the weather had been pleasant enough. They walked a leisurely pace and stopped whenever and for as long as they wished. At night, they lay beside each other, sharing each other's warmth and gazing up at the stars and the moon which had strangely not quite yet begun to wane.

Tonight was no different. After a long day of walking, they finally decided to stop for the night in a meadow of white flowers, where there would be no barrier between them and the starry sky as they lay down to rest. It was Syrin's understanding that Rasaad found this to be an excellent method of being close to his goddess, replacing that which he had once achieved through communion amongst the Sun Soul monks. She was glad that he had found something to fill the hole in his life that that loss had created and she felt no qualms about being a key part of it, especially if it helped him keep hold of his beliefs.

When Syrin had first met Rasaad, she had seldom thought of the gods before and the only deity she had ever paid tribute to was Oghma, whose teachings she was thoroughly familiar with, having grown up in Candlekeep. She had gained a respect for Silvanus when Jaheira had begun to teach her the ways of the open wild, but it had never occurred to her to pray to him. Rasaad's entry into her life changed this dramatically. She had never met anyone so devout before who followed a god other than Oghma, and his practices were quite different from the monks of that faith. The way he had spoken of Selûne had easily charmed her in her lost and grieving state. As time went on, her path had taken her deeper and deeper into a darkness that threatened to consume her, body and soul, and as she had grown to know Rasaad better, she had become more and more drawn to his light.

She would never forget the day Rasaad had given her the Selûnite symbol that still hung around her neck, for it was also the day that she had learned that Bhaal was her father. Unable to reconcile who she had understood herself to be with the fact that such evil flowed in her veins, and thoroughly believing that the world was best rid of her, she had attempted to take her own life. Rasaad had found her in time to push the water from her lungs and breathe air into them, pulling her back from the precipice of oblivion.

It had been some hours after that when she had finally brought herself to speak and confess her exact reasons for what she had done to her friends, who had all been quite shocked by the incident. They had each offered comfort of some kind, but Rasaad was the only one to go beyond words and physical contact. He had taken the silver charm from around his neck and offered it to her, saying that, if she wished, she could rely on Selûne to light her path when she could not see her own light. The fact that he had still believed that she had an inner light at all had been enough to persuade her, and from that day forward, she had considered Selûne her patron.

Over the course of the next two years, Syrin had developed a proper connection with the Moonmaiden, one which had granted her certain gifts as a ranger and allowed her to see what Rasaad saw when he looked up at the night sky as they did now, sharing in their appreciation of the beauty above them.

"It's not long now until the first hour of the Feast of the Moon," Syrin commented, breaking the comfortable silence.

"An important day for the followers of Shar," Rasaad replied somewhat grimly. Syrin could recall him once telling her that Shar's worshipers performed live sacrifices and plotted the spread of darkness in the coming year during the Feast of the Moon.

"And yet the moon is still full in the time of its arrival. Perhaps we should take this as a good omen, a sign that Shar's strength is fading." This suggestion seemed to be rather comforting to the monk.

"I pray you are right." Syrin strangely managed to get him to smile by responding with a simple gesture. She took up his hand, entwining their fingers together, and pressed it over her heart.

"I think we should thwart Shar further by spending the holiday in a way she would definitely disapprove of. We should share our fondest memories of those we have lost." At first, Rasaad did not appear to be entirely comfortable with this idea, and Syrin knew he was thinking of Gamaz, so she decided to take the first leap and talk of Gorion.

"When I was a young child, speaking was a challenge for me. There was nothing physically wrong to make me so. Rather, I was so shy that I couldn't bring myself to say anything, and when I did, I stuttered and paused constantly, for fear that I'd fail to express myself properly. Gorion didn't try to force confidence into me as most parents would. Instead, he accommodated me. I can still clearly remember him cutting parchment into smaller sheets and giving me little rolls of them with a pen and small bottle of ink to carry around so that I might write down anything I wanted to say, for he knew me to be an excellent writer, particularly for someone so small, and correctly inferred from that that I would find it easier to talk to others in writing," Syrin regaled, smiling absently at the memory of Gorion's kindness.

"He was clearly a good father," Rasaad commented serenely, "and I have seen how much of that goodness he has passed on to you. You do him great honour, Syrin."

"Thank you."

"May I ask what it was that allowed you to gain your confidence?"

"Oh, that was Imoen's doing. The moment my sister and I became inseparable was the moment I had to start learning to communicate fast enough to keep up with her," Syrin laughed. She had always been the reserved one, while Imoen had always been the one bursting with barely contained energy. Whenever the elf wondered if her sister would have been better off if she had chosen to leave her behind in Candlekeep, she remembered that. "Even so, my social fear has never completely gone away. I know it may not seem that way, especially when Imoen is present, but it's true. I still cling to the memory of Gorion holding my hand."

"I could never have guessed that that is so. You speak extremely well to my ear, Syrin. More eloquently than most, in fact," Rasaad told her softly, rolling onto his side to face her.

"Really? I've always thought I was a gaff master extraordinaire, fool things coming out with every parting of my lips."

"Don't be so unkind to yourself, my light. You are many things, but a fool is certainly not one of them." Syrin responded to this by resting her head lovingly against his shoulder and letting out a contented sigh. She still had no idea how to accept most compliments with words, so this alone would have to do. They remained this way in silence for several minutes, Syrin feeling that she had said her peace. Then Rasaad seemed to gain the courage to say something of his own lost loved ones.

"When I was a child and my father was still alive, he would carry me on his shoulders so that I would not be overwhelmed by the crowd and could see everything," he divulged carefully, as if testing the waters of his comfort with the topic. "Looking back on it, I believe that he was more afraid of losing me than anything."

"It sounds like you and your brother were everything to him."

"We were. Everything he did, he did for us. That's why he accumulated so much debt. It was hard to keep us fed and happy on the menial wages of a laborer."

"But you _were_ happy when he was with you?"

"Yes, for the most part."

"I imagine Gamaz looked after you with the same devotion." Syrin was cautious in her mention of Rasaad's older brother, unsure if it would turn the conversation down an upsetting path instead of draining the residual pain in their hearts.

"He did. When our father died, Gamaz seemed to mature far beyond his years. He was brave and strong willed, holding steady when I could not. I idolized him," Rasaad replied without hesitation. It appeared to be much easier for him to speak of his elder brother when he was singing his praises, which was just fine, since that was the point.

"It's good that you had a sibling to look up to."

"You did not look up to Imoen?"

"Imoen and I were on the same level. I know her strengths and flaws and have subsequently always considered her my equal. As a result, I've forever had to be my own inspiration and, well...you've witnessed what cracks lie in that armor." Syrin tried to maintain an even, indifferent tone as she spoke, but her voice wavered as she alluded to the various meltdowns she had experienced over the past two years. Rasaad's large hand came up to cradle the side of her face, forcing her to look him in the eyes.

"If you have the willpower to be your own guiding force, then you have no need of an idol, Syrin," he told her earnestly. "What you require instead is a confidant, someone you can allow to see under your mask."

"Then it's lucky that I have you, is it not?" Syrin replied, her pale blue eyes twinkling back at her husband.

"Well, I- that is..." Her remark had flustered him rather spectacularly. Clearly he had not expected her to name him her confidant. "I will always do whatever I can for you. I love you," he eventually managed softly.

"Rasaad?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me?" Never one to disappoint, Rasaad obliged her, rather more enthusiastically than she had anticipated no less. In the heat of their embrace, he was soon on top of her, gazing down at her reverently.

"Your hair is like the moon and these flowers its stars," he whispered.

"Does that mean you're going to start worshiping me now?"

"Perhaps." Rasaad's hand began to trail up Syrin's thigh and she grinned. He really was getting quite good at this.

* * *

The morning of the Feast of the Moon was a bright one and a little warmer than usual for the season, although Syrin still kept her cloak firmly wrapped around herself to keep out the slightly brisk wind. The grass was dewy and twinkled in the soft sunlight, providing for a peaceful atmosphere in Syrin and Rasaad's continuing journey southwards. She twiddled a flower from the meadow they had lain in the previous night between her fingers as they walked and resumed discussion of their lost loved ones.

"Do you know anything about your mother?" Syrin queried when they came to a bridge that crossed a rather wide but relatively calm river.

"Her name was Talil yr Nashora yi Memnon. Beyond that, I only know what Gamaz has told me. My father refused to speak of her to me. Whenever I asked about her as a child, Gamaz would always describe her as the kindest, most beautiful person in all of Calimshan. He said that her smile alone could calm the soul and she even hushed me with a smile when she named me before she died," Rasaad answered wistfully.

"She sounds like a wonderful woman. I think she may have passed on many of her qualities to you."

"Thank you. I endeavor to deserve such praise." The elf reveled in the way Rasaad turned a little pink as he spoke. It was remarkable to her how they could be like a couple who had been married for years in some ways, but like adolescents with crushes in others, and she loved it. "What about you? I remember you said that when we were in the Pocket Plane after you killed Yaga-Shura, you saw your mother, but you never told us about her," Rasaad went on to ask, causing Syrin to suddenly become rather solemn. She had been glad that her friends had been unconscious during that little episode, because it had allowed her to keep the horrible truth about her mother to herself, if not the fact that she and Sarevok were two sides of the same coin.

"Her name was Arianna and she was a priestess of Bhaal. She was going to sacrifice me to bring back my father, but Gorion killed her and rescued me." Saying that aloud left a sickened feeling in Syrin's gut. She usually actively avoided even thinking about her origins. Speaking of it was a harsh reminder that she was a horrific creation living on time that could have been someone else's.

"I'm sorry, Syrin. I did not mean to-"

"No, I know you didn't. It's fine."

"It's quite clearly not fine," Rasaad pressed, taking the elf's hand firmly in his own, forcing her to stop with him. "Please look at me." Reluctantly, her blue gaze came up to make eye contact. "It is my belief that it is our choices that define who we are, not the circumstances of our birth. You may have been begot by evil, but you have chosen to be a good person at every turn. The world is a better place with you in it; of that, I am absolutely certain."

Syrin had no idea how to respond to this, comforting though she found her husband's words to be.

"Let's keeping walking," she eventually murmured and to her relief, Rasaad gave no objection. They made their way across the rest of the bridge in silence, the only sound in the air the rush of the water beneath them and the creak of the wood in the wind. When they reached the crest of the hill on the other side, they could see the outline of mountains in the distance.

"The Small Teeth," Rasaad muttered under his breath. Once they crossed those mountains, they would be in Tethyr, where they would have to navigate the forest that had raised Jaheira. The druid had been kind enough to mark their map with important locations, both friendly and hostile, so it would thankfully not be quite so dangerous as it otherwise would be. Of course, they would have to get to the mountains first.

A distant scream reached the couple's ears and they instinctively started running in the direction they thought they had heard it. Rasaad, who was far ahead, soon spotted a body under a tree and raced towards it, shouting back that it was a severely wounded young woman. He knelt beside her, gently propping her up, and hastily extracted blue bottles from a case tied to his belt. He was too focused on administering the potions to notice the ogre about to bring a huge axe down on his head.

"Na! Arkhdrauthor!" Syrin barked in Elvish, too angry and alarmed to bother with Common, as she charged the foul creature and fully grabbed its attention with an arrow to the gut. It roared at her and turned away from Rasaad, keen on exacting revenge. Once she was close enough, she slung her shortbow back over her shoulder and drew her swords to block a swing from the ogre's axe. Swiftly and fluidly stepping to one side, she effectively scissored off the arm that bore the crude weapon. The ogre gave a terrible shriek and dove to pick up its axe with its remaining hand, only to be summarily cut down by the ranger. She only had a second to enjoy her victory, however, before she noticed the second ogre that was now charging her. It swung an ugly halberd at her and she leapt out of the way...but not far enough. The edge of the blade slashed her across the back and she stumbled, going down with a hiss of agony.

"Syrin!" Rasaad exclaimed in horror, finally having a good enough reason to break his focus at the sound of his wife in pain. He whirled around and dashed forward, flinging his hand forward, palm open. A blast of fire burst forth and struck the offending ogre square in the chest. The monk's other hand balled into a fist and pounded his enemy in the gut, finalizing its fate. With a very solid, resounding thud, it fell to the ground, lifeless. Rasaad quickly looked around for other hostile creatures, but he saw none and immediately came to crouch beside Syrin.

She lay on her stomach in the grass, winded and bleeding profusely, sending Rasaad into a bit of a panic. She could give no response to his frantic inquiries about her state, instead making choked gasps. As gingerly as he could, he pulled her into a sitting position and fished another small blue bottle from his bag. After pulling the cork with his teeth and spitting it into the grass, he put the potion to Syrin's lips. She winced as she drank, but the bloody gash across her back began to fade and she got her breath back.

"Thank you," she heaved upon finishing off the bottle. "I'm alright now."

"Are you sure?" Rasaad's fingertips traced the raw red line where the elf's wound had been. It hadn't really been that bad, but it had seemed so with the air knocked out of her.

"Yes, although I couldn't say the same about my cloak or my tunic." Both clothing items had been cut wide open, effectively ruining them. Syrin realized that it was odd of her to be more upset by this than being wounded, but she granted herself allowances for general weirdness and morbidity based on her personal history. Thankfully, her husband made up for her lack of sense in this area.

"Better a few pieces of cloth than you, Syrin." He kissed her forehead for emphasis and she closed her eyes for a long moment, relishing it.

"You...you..." a small, wheezing voice suddenly called and the pair looked over at the young woman whose aid they had come to. She was now leaning against the trunk of the tree, clutching her sides. Clearly Rasaad had managed to heal her enough to bring her out of immediate danger, but she was by no means fully recovered. Syrin rushed to her, forgetting her own plight, and called upon Selûne for a healing spell. Her hands glowed and in seconds, the stranger was completely physically healthy.

"Please tell us what happened here," the ranger urged and the stranger began to tremble.

"Horrible beast men came and burned my village to the ground. I tried to escape, but...but they found me...I-I-"

"Shhh...it's okay now. You're safe with us," Syrin soothed as the young woman began to sob. "Is there anywhere you can go? Any friends or family who can take you in?"

"M-My aunt and uncle live in Athkatla." At this, Syrin drew a small white bottle from the blue pouch tied to her belt and pressed it into the stranger's hand.

"Drink this and you will be able to run to them in just a few short hours. Follow the Trade Way. It's not the safest route, but it'll keep you from getting lost. When you reach Athkatla, tell a soldier what happened to your home," she instructed.

"Thank you! Might I know the names of the people who saved me?"

"I am Syrin and this is Rasaad."

"Syrin? As in Syrin A'Gorion?"

"Yes, but I'd be grateful if you didn't, er, share that information." Truth be told, the look of awe on the young woman's face made Syrin a tad uncomfortable. As far as she was concerned, her days of heroism and glory were to be left behind. If everyone she met continued to throw around her name, relinquishing the limelight would be that much harder.

"I won't. I promise. My name's Relia, by the way."

"Good luck, Relia. May Selûne light your path," Rasaad replied with a bow of his head and Relia got to her feet, quaffed the potion Syrin had given her, and sped north. The couple watched her go with concern in their eyes. "Sothillis is unrelenting in his raiding it seems," the monk commented.

"We must be extremely careful." Though Syrin felt the call of old habits, the need to drop everything and raise a campaign against the ogre mage, she changed her tunic and continued on towards the mountains with Rasaad instead, reminding herself that that wasn't her life anymore and that she had made a solemn promise to Jaheira.

"What was it you shouted at that ogre earlier?" Rasaad asked as they came over another hill.

"Oh, essentially it was 'hey, senseless destroyer'. It sounds a lot more insulting in Elvish than it does in Common, I know."

"I am surprised that Elvish is your first language, given that you grew up among mostly humans."

"Technically, I have two first languages, because I learned Elvish and Chondathan simultaneously, but yes. Gorion made sure I was a native speaker of Elvish. He spoke it with me exclusively until I hit puberty, so I even favour Elvish over other tongues in my thoughts. I think he did it to ensure that I wouldn't feel any less of an elf than others," Syrin explained.

"Would you consider teaching me?" This was a request the woman had not anticipated, causing her to raise her silvery eyebrows before answering.

"Certainly, if you'll agree to teach me Alzhedo."

"Of course." Rasaad's dark amber eyes shone with delight and he immediately dove into Syrin's first lesson in his native language.


	4. Chapter 4

Hour 14 Nightal 4, 1370 DR

 

The Small Teeth had not been unkind to the young couple as they had made their way across them. The wind had not been terribly strong and it had taken them only two days to traverse them, though it was fortunate that Syrin had been able to acquire a new cloak from a traveling merchant before they had reached the border, for those two days had indeed been cold. No beasts more dangerous than a few cougars accosted them on their way, which had to be a miracle, given the number of foul creatures that liked to make their homes in such rocky, difficult locations.

They now found themselves in the Forest of Tethir, which was not as peaceful a place as the fields and meadows of Amn, nor the mountains. The forest was noisy with the sounds of all sorts of life. At least it was to Syrin's ears. She didn't think Rasaad's senses were attuned enough to detect many of the things that she could. The ground was littered with the tracks of dozens of different types of beasts, plants chewed or broken where they had ambled along. She saw it all.

“What are you smiling about?” Rasaad asked her in curiosity as they passed through a patch of large ferns.

“Oh, nothing. It's just that, when I'm in a forest like this and see the evidence of so many lives, I like to think about how irrelevant we are to them. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter a single jot if I'm here or somewhere else. Life will carry on here just as it always has. Cities are different. Cities need people and there's so much to inadvertently be a part of as you pass through, but the forest couldn't care less who you are. It's pleasant, for lack of a better word,” Syrin mused, brushing the tips of her fingers across the trunk of an elm tree than had no doubt been there since before the founding of Waterdeep.

“I agree. It is good to be away from the problems of civilization. It clears the mind.”

“Exactly. I think you can understand why I chose to go back to the Umar Hills of all places after...after everything.” Everything in this case being the entire two years of her life in which she had suffered practically all of the worst things imaginable and gotten called a hero for bearing it, despite the fact that the whole business had left her feeling permanently tainted and entirely unheroic. Getting away from crowds had been the beginning of her healing process.

“Yes. Perfectly.”

“You know, I feel alive now in a way I haven't before, and I think it's because every step I take is my choice. I go where I go because I want to and not because of some coercion or injustice. My life is my own to do with as I please. It's daunting as much as it is exciting,” Syrin rambled on, speaking thoughts she had been keeping bottled up inside for some time.

“I know the feeling,” Rasaad replied, causing Syrin to become quite embarrassed at forgetting his perspective. He had tragedies of his own to recover from, more than a few of which she had actually witnessed.

“Of course. How thoughtless of me.”

“It is no matter. You were merely expressing your own experience.” The question 'Why are you so perfect?' danced on Syrin's tongue at this, but she left it unsaid and instead simply beamed at her husband lovingly. The moment was not given its due in contented silence, however, as the sound of hissing and clicking greeted their ears from above. They looked up in surprise to see several enormous spiders descending upon them, rubbing their forelegs together as if in greedy anticipation.

Syrin and Rasaad leapt out of their way to avoid being tackled by the things as they landed. The ranger grabbed her partner by the collar and yanked him into ducking out of the way of a splash of poison one of the spiders spat at him. The spider that had been on her right suddenly vanished with a whoosh and crack and she had no idea where it had gone until she abruptly found herself sprawled on the ground with the monster bearing down on her from behind. Rolling over, she buried one of her swords to the hilt in its head. It shrieked and scrambled away, freeing her to get back to her feet and watch it crumple on its side.

That done, she spun around, icy eyes searching for Rasaad. He was a few yards away, measuring up a pair of arachnids coming at him from either side. With all the grace of a dancer, he flipped onto his hands and performed a spinning kick that sent the spiders flying backwards with their heads caved in.

Syrin was then distracted once again by a particularly giant spider, this one with legs like swords. It hissed viciously and made two swipes at her, attempting to scissor her in two.

“Hey, that's my move,” she muttered under her breath indignantly as she did what she would consider a minor feat of acrobatics to avoid becoming half an elf in the most literal way possible. Now even more miffed with this spider than she otherwise would be, Syrin swung her swords like the blades of windmills and severed all of the spider's legs from its body. It rolled away, clicking madly, and tumbled into one of its smaller fellows, crushing it. In reaction, the ranger's lips curved in an expression somewhere between surprise and satisfaction. “Not bad,” she told herself.

“Syrin!” Rasaad cried out, sounding frantic, and she whipped around to see him suspended in air, being pulled up between the branches of the trees by the sticky webs of no less than three very determined spiders. It looked as if he had struggled but had only managed to further entangle himself.

“Hold on! I'm coming!” she called back. Sheathing her swords, she immediately began to climb the nearest tree as quickly as she could. Unfortunately for her, another spider was in hot pursuit. With a single swipe of one of its legs, she was knocked from her footing and forced to dangle precariously from a branch that was much thinner than she would have liked for this purpose. Trying to get a good look at the thing so as to aim properly, she kicked it in the eyes. It screamed and cringed long enough for her to pull herself back up. She hadn't gotten away entirely, however. A second later, she felt something pierce her thigh and she swore loudly. Taking a round white bottle from the blue bag on her belt, she threw it down at the spider. The clay shattered across the creature's maw and turned it to ice, causing it to fall and break into a thousand pieces on the ground. Triumphant, Syrin frantically continued upward.

Meanwhile, Rasaad was in imminent danger of becoming a sticky, all-meat burrito at the hands, or rather feelers, of three spiders who seemed quite eager for lunch. Syrin was glad he hadn't thoroughly panicked yet and thus had not tried to holy fire his way out of the situation. She had married a sensible man who understood exactly how displeased she would be at the unrestrained use of fire in a forest.

Positioning herself just below the first layer of webbing that stretched across the canopy, Syrin drew her bow and aimed at the arachnid that looked to be about to spit its poison on Rasaad. Her arrow struck its belly and it froze. A second arrow shattered it like ice. This drew the attention of the other two spiders, who dropped the monk into the net of their web and came at her, pincers snapping. Though she felt herself growing weaker, she managed to repeat the process with these remaining two.

“Rasaad, are you alright?” Syrin called as she began to carefully weave her way the remaining distance through the branches and webs.

“Besides a few cuts and bruises and these damn threads, I am alright, yes,” Rasaad replied as she came into his field of vision.

“Good. Now, how to get you down...” Syrin's eyes scanned the area for ideas and after a moment, one presented itself in the form of a branch positioned perfectly above her husband. She climbed up to it and, holding on by her legs, dangled herself over him, reaching down to grab him tightly around the waist before she cut the webbing that held him. Unfortunately, she had misjudged the strength of the branch she clung to. It snapped under both of their weights and sent them tumbling together to the ground, Syrin letting loose the nastiest Chondathan swears that her mind could summon in that moment as they went. The only thing to reduce the force of their fall was breaking through a number of branches and glancing off a few more. They landed together with a resounding _thump_ and a pair of _oof_ s.

“Are you hurt?” Rasaad wheezed after Syrin rolled off of him.

“Nothing's broken. You?”

“The same.” There was a long pause after that in which they regained their breath and took stock of their aches and pains before Syrin burst out laughing. She couldn't help it. Something about the relatively casual way in which they had handled the situation had struck a chord with her morbid sense of humour. Rasaad briefly stared at her in shock before joining her in her euphoria, apparently also recognizing why she found all of this so funny.

“We make a fine pair, do we not?” she commented once her gales of laughter had subsided. Her voice had grown weak and her skin was starting to look clammy. She could feel the beginnings of nausea coming on.

“Syrin, you look ill,” Rasaad observed, his tone laced with concern. He followed her gaze to the torn patch in the thigh of her trousers and the ugly wound there that was turning shades of green and purple with black veins spreading in every direction.

“Forgot about that.” Syrin gave a meek smile. “There's...antidote...my bag.” Determined not to waste a moment more, Rasaad reached in her blue pouch and retrieved an emerald bottle, which he uncorked and held to her lips until she had swallowed it all. Instantly, her complexion improved and her small movements steadied. The ranger placed her hand over the remaining injury and it glowed until the skin there was clear. “Thanks,” Syrin murmured before using Rasaad's shoulder to pull herself to her feet.

“Well, we seem to have gotten ourselves out of yet another sticky situation,” he commented casually as they continued on through the forest. The pun took the elf completely off guard and she stopped to stare at him for a minute, her expression blank. A fresh wave of laughter then burst forth from her lithe form. She threw her head back and clutched at her sides as they began to ache.

“Rasaad...Rasaad...that was beautiful...and I love you,” she managed between her cackling. In her eyes, this moment alone justified her choice to marry this man. “Who taught you to make such terrible puns?”

“A true master,” he answered with a straight face, causing Syrin to only laugh harder. It was getting quite difficult for her to breathe in fact. It took several minutes for her to recover enough to speak again.

“I've corrupted you, _salen arivae_. I've planted the dark seed of wit.”

“On the contrary,” Rasaad countered, finally allowing himself a grin, “I firmly believe that your sense of humour comes from the lightest part of you and protects you from the darkness. I'm glad you have shared it with me.”

“I suppose you're right. I don't think I'd have made it this far without humour,” Syrin admitted. “I believe Xan would call it a 'coping mechanism'.” She sometimes missed Xan dearly, especially whenever the topic of psychology was brought up. The man had always had something educational (if depressing) to say about it.

“What does 'salen arivae' mean?” Rasaad asked, the mention of the elf mage obviously having reminded him of Syrin's use of Elvish. Her cheeks tinged pink and she fixed her gaze on the mulchy soil of the ground.

“It's, uh, it's a term of endearment...it means 'my sunlight'.” This earned her a kiss on the temple that made her smile coyly.

“In Alzhedo, we would say 'mazha khurruzur',” Rasaad murmured in her ear as he pulled away. A girlish giggle escaped her as she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Rasaad yn Bashir?”

“Would you like that?” Everything about his tone and expression phrased it as a serious question, bless him, but it still managed to have the same effect on Syrin as it would have had there been an air of mischief to his words.

“You know, for a monk, you have an oddly powerful ability to inspire the most unholy thoughts,” she teased before hopping the small stream they had come to and looking back at him with a smirk.

“I don't think there's anything unholy about it. In fact, the followers of Sune believe that such things are sacred,” he replied earnestly after jumping to join her on the other side of the stream.

“What about Selûne's teachings, though?” Syrin questioned playfully as she carefully steered them away from some knoll tracks she had spotted in the grass.

“Selûne commands nothing of a husband and wife but that they respect and love each other and that is precisely what we are doing,” Rasaad countered her and she quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You say that like you've looked it up to be sure.” The monk chuckled at this and pushed a low hanging branch out of his path.

“Rest assured, Selûne smiles upon our union.”

Syrin gave a much more genuine grin this time. It was nice to hear Rasaad speak of his connection to his goddess with such confidence again. Ever since Alorgoth had been defeated and the Order of the Sun Soul had flatly refused to allow him back into their ranks, he had been noticeably shaken in his faith. He had at one point confided in Syrin that he feared that he would lose the Moonmaiden's favour entirely, that she would completely turn her back on him, because he felt that he had profoundly failed her and that Shar's umbra was closing in on him. To see him so sure of Selûne's solicitude again warmed Syrin's heart.

“I could make a voyeurism joke, but I won't,” the ranger added, quickly falling back on her teasing. Rasaad looked slightly scandalized and was about to say something, but they had both abruptly become quite distracted by the number of arrows which were now pointing at them. Hooded figures encircled them, having leapt down from the trees, aiming their bows at the couple. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Syrin sighed in exasperation.

“Ugulur dosst saroless,” someone called in what Syrin recognized as the Drow language, though she did not know enough of it to discern the meaning. Her heart sunk. This had a high probability of turning out badly. To her relief, however, whatever had been said had caused the cloaked figures to lower their bows and one of them stepped forward, pulling back their hood.

“Solaufein?!” Syrin burst out in shock. There could be no mistake. This was the drow man who had been so instrumental in her survival in the Underdark over a year ago. She had wondered occasionally what had become of him and she was honestly delighted to see that he was still alive.

“Have we met before, _noamuth_?” Solaufein scowled at the couple with an odd air of curiosity.

“Do you remember a woman named Syrin who was under the guise of Veldrin from Ched Nasad? I am she. You see before you my true face,” the moon elf answered, a hint of excitement in her tone, and Solaufein's jaw dropped. His entire demeanor changed from cautious to friendly and adoring.

“How could I forget the person who saved my life? Forgive me; I see it now. Sparing me was remarkable enough when I thought you another drow, but I was truly humbled knowing it was a surface elf who showed me such unusual kindness.” Solaufein bowed to Syrin and slowly, his companions also lowered their hoods, revealing them all to be drow.

“I only did what I thought was right. I'm pleased to see that you're alive and have found others like yourself,” the ranger replied with a gentle smile. The tension disappeared from her shoulders as her subconscious acknowledged that she was not under any threat.

“And what a strange thing it is indeed to be a drow with friends. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Speaking of which, who is your companion? Is he one of the men who were with you in Ust Natha?” Solaufein turned his attention to Rasaad, who had also relaxed at the realization that they were among friends.

“Yes. This is Rasaad. You would remember him by the name Jathiir.”

“Ah. The one who never took his eyes off of you. I could never decide whether he wanted to bed or behead you. It's often both with drow men, but now that I know he's a surfacer, I don't know what to think,” Solaufein joked, resulting in both Syrin and Rasaad turning rather red in the face.

“Actually, uh, we're recently married.” Syrin held up her left hand to display her wedding band and Solaufein grinned and proceeded to deepen their embarrassment.

“Ah, so that _was_ sexual tension, then. I'm glad to see that it turned out better for you two than it did for myself and Phaere. But no matter. That's all behind me. I find myself married now as well. With a newborn son even. Come; you must meet my wife.” Beckoning to both the couple and his fellow drow, Solaufein turned and began to lead them all westwards through the forest a ways.

As they went, he told them about what had happened to him since he had fled the Underdark with naught but his life. He spoke of how he had wandered south, stealing from farms and sleeping in stables to survive, until he had reached the very heart of the Forest of Tethir, where he had encountered a community of Eilistraee worshippers led by a druid named Xune. Xune immediately took him in and looked after him, allowing a tight bond to develop between them. Whenever Solaufein mentioned her, it was always in somewhat reverent tones. It seemed quite clear to Syrin that this man was totally smitten and that made her smile to herself as she listened to him.

They eventually came to a small grouping of huts there in the wood. There was still something distinctly drow about the style of the structures, despite being made with organic materials instead of stone. It was oddly cozy. Dark elves with kind faces arranged in curious expressions peered in interest at the outsiders who had been brought into their midst. Syrin would have been lying if she had said that seeing such a lack of hostility from drow was a bit of a shock to the system. Even so, she reminded herself vigorously not to prejudge anyone here.

“Xune! You will hardly believe who we have found wandering our lands!” Solaufein called out upon spotting a serene woman standing at the entrance of the largest hut with a bundle in her arms. She quirked an eyebrow at him after eyeing Syrin and Rasaad. “This is the ranger who spared my life.” Xune's angular face split into a wide grin at this and she stepped forward.

“You are most welcome here,” she told the couple cordially. “So much is owed to you. Come. Meet the son I would not have had you not saved his father.” The druid indicated the bundle in her arms and shyly, Syrin and Rasaad came forward. A little sleepy obsidian face looked up at them indifferently with vibrant amethyst eyes, a sprig of silky white hair flopped over its forehead. “This is Vloraen. He will be the first among us to grow up without the shadow of the Spider Queen looming over him. He will always know that he is loved and that he is the equal of anyone.”

Syrin was almost overwhelmed with emotion in that moment. Though her expression remained neutral, her blue eyes shone with excess moisture. She was thoroughly moved by the sight before her, knowing that she was the ultimate reason it was possible. If there was one good thing she had done, it had to be this.

“May I...may I hold him?” Syrin requested softly. Xune seemed a little surprised by the question, but then she carefully transferred her son to Syrin's arms. The ranger felt her heart swell at the trust she had been shown and she smiled down at the child unreservedly. “Well met, Vloraen. You probably don't understand what I'm saying at all and it's unlikely that you'll remember this, but my name is Syrin A'Gorion and if you ever have need of me, you have but to call on me. You have my promise.”

Vloraen sputtered back at her incoherently and she couldn't help but let out a single adoring laugh. Just then, she caught Rasaad looking at her with a very peculiar expression on his face and she had no idea what emotion it was meant to reflect.

“What?” she questioned and he seemed to snap out of whatever it was that had been preoccupying him.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Deciding to give up any notion of interrogating Rasaad, Syrin turned her attention back to Vloraen, who had apparently made the choice to fall asleep. Gently, she handed him back to his mother, who seemed even happier after the ranger's promise.

“You are welcome to rest here with us tonight, if you wish. We have more than enough food to share, as the forest has been generous to us this past season, and we can provide comfortable sleeping quarters,” Xune offered and Syrin wondered how much of the kindness and trust these drow displayed was a deliberate attempt to distance themselves from the dominant culture of their cavern dwelling kin.

“We would be honoured, ma'am,” Syrin accepted and the other dark elves around them murmured to each other in pleased, almost excited tones.


	5. Chapter 5

Hour 2 Nightal 5, 1370 DR

Swathed in the light of waning moon, the worshipers of the Dark Maiden, Eilistraee, danced to the beat of their drums, circling the musicians where most surfacers would have a fire. The words of the songs were in the Drow tongue, but Syrin understood enough to know that these chants were paying tribute to the drow moon goddess.

The ranger and her taciturn husband only watched at first, but as the night went on, they both loosened up, stamping their feet and drumming their knees to the fast paced music. They had no qualms about participating in what was clearly a religious ritual, given that, while it was dedicated to a deity who was by no means their patron, they felt a kindred spirit as Selûnites. They both paid homage to the moon and stars, after all.

The drow apparently felt similarly towards them, because they all seemed quite curious to hear more about Selûne and wanted to see how their beliefs lined up with the teachings of the Moonmaiden. Rasaad was all too happy to answer the questions of inquisitive drow and was even caught up for a full hour in conversation with a young priest of Eilistraee. Syrin overheard them speaking in ecstatic tones and was vividly reminded of her days in Candlekeep when she and Imoen would obsessively read about one topic or another of interest and then later babble at each other jubilantly about what they had read. Seeing Rasaad in a similar state amused her, particularly upon consideration of the fact that he did not usually talk so much, especially to people other than her.

"That man is everything to you. I can see it in the way you look at him," Solaufein commented when he noticed Syrin glancing over at Rasaad in the middle of their conversation, which had been about nothing in particular until now. "I don't mean to intrude, but what made that happen?"

"I'm...not sure you'd believe me if I told you," Syrin began slowly. At this point, she considered Solaufein a good friend, but there were just a few people in this world she felt she could discuss her traumatic experiences with in detail, and only them, because they had been at her side to witness these things. Solaufein, trustworthy though she believed him to be, could never understand what she had gone through, and so she selected her words with care. "Suffice to say, my life could have taken a completely different direction than its present course, but I made a choice, and that choice was Rasaad, so you're right. He is my world."

"He must be a truly great man to be deserving of that decision." Solaufein appeared to be genuinely impressed, despite not knowing the full circumstances of what Syrin had told him. She imagined he would have been absolutely reverent had he known what she had turned down for Rasaad.

"He is." Syrin smiled involuntarily a little as she spoke, glancing again at the monk, who seemed to be in the midst of explaining the tension between Selûne and Shar to the enraptured priest of Eilistraee.

"Where is it your path with him is taking you, may I ask?" Syrin's gaze snapped back to Solaufein at this question.

"We go to Calimport. It's Rasaad's birthplace."

"I am familiar with little of the surface world beyond this forest, but the City of Glory is known to many in the Underdark. Calishite goods often find their way down and human Calishites themselves are considered more worthy of attention than other humans because it is said that their society is the closest the surface has to offer to the ways of the drow. If that is where you go, then I wish you luck."

"Thank you, Solaufein," Syrin responded, holding back the urge to sass the warrior. Rasaad had spent most of his life in Calimshan and she completely trusted him to know how they should handle themselves to avoid trouble while they were there. He had spoken often enough about the harsh environment of his homeland that Syrin had no illusions about the ever present dangers that lurked in Calimport. She knew what she had signed up for. She did not need Solaufein to remind her.

"You are of course welcome here upon your return journey," the drow continued graciously. Syrin gave him a nod of thanks and was about to speak, but then a mature looking dark elf woman stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight, her violet eyes fixed on the ranger in a rather intense manner. Oddly, it both discomfited and enthralled Syrin. Solaufein seemed to quickly notice the other drow's presence, because he suddenly got to his feet and bowed to the woman, as did many of the others who caught sight of her. Most interesting of these was the young priest who had been conversing with Rasaad.

"Mistress," the drow boy addressed her reverently. "Is it time? Have you come to speak truths yet to pass?"

"Yes. Gather 'round all, for there is much to be said, much that the Dark Maiden as whispered to me about what has been, what is, and what shall be," the woman answered without even once removing her gaze from Syrin's. The ranger found herself unable to look away. Rasaad's hand soon asserted itself on her shoulder, letting her know that he was by her side. "I shall speak first of Syrin, Gorion's Ward and Murder's Child, She Who Is Both The Light and The Dark. Your destiny has long been written in the stars, set forth for all to see, but for few to understand. You have burned the cloth from which you were cut and shrouded yourself in turn with the mantle of a mortal heart, but this does not end destiny's song. Your strength has still more fruit to bear."

The priestess's cryptic words set Syrin's heart pounding as she listened, disturbed by the fact that this woman knew her history and dreading what manner of prophecy might yet be revealed. Here she had thought that the trials of her life had passed and that she would now live in peace. Still more of her destiny being written in stone was the last thing she wanted. There was nothing to be done, however. The priestess's eyes seemed to begin to glow and her commanding alto voice resonated as she continued:

_In you seven stars there will be,_

_The first to bear the righteous flame,_

_The second to sooth the agony,_

_The third to heed no doubt nor shame,_

_The fourth to dance the steel song,_

_The fifth to weave the finest thread,_

_The sixth to hear the unseen wrong,_

_The seventh to honour the dead._

_Each moon will shine and fade,_

_As all things do in time._

_Their strength will be unmade,_

_In vengeance of the crime._

Rasaad's grip on Syrin's shoulder tightened as the priestess uttered her prophetic wisdom, keeping the ranger grounded. She felt increasingly nauseous with each word spoken. She had no idea what was meant by any of it, but it hardly sounded good. Her chest had grown tight and air passed between her lips at irregular intervals as panic set in. It was a familiar sensation and thus she found little challenge in maintaining her neutral expression despite it all.

"This fate is bound in blood with that of Rasaad, Son of Faheed, Son of Bashir, He Who Begot The Flame. It burns in the service of a single shadow that it has brought into its embrace and for this alone. The old darkness has retreated, leaving this one devotion and all that it will bring to fruition. The dye is cast and the seed is sown. It only remains for the song to be sung." The violet gaze of the priestess then fell upon Rasaad, whose face was a stoney mask.

"You honour us with your wisdom," he told her respectfully, to which she nodded her head and turned her attention to the others who had gathered around her. Her eyes searched for a moment before landing on the child in Xune's arms.

"This boy will play a part in destinies grander than his own. Teach him well, that he might be prepared for what is to come," she informed the druid.

"Understood, Nymva. Thank you."

Syrin watched in silence as the priestess, Nymva, moved from one drow to the next, offering her words on their futures. There could be no doubt that the woman was among the Chosen of Eilistraee, granted gifts no mere cleric could possess. Syrin highly doubted that the fact that she and Rasaad just happened to be here on the night she gave prophecy was coincidence. They were clearly meant to be here to hear those words and that quite frankly frightened her.

"Are you alright?" Rasaad inquired once Nymva had withdrawn from the congregation, brushing Syrin's fringe from her eyes. "You seem unwell."

"I need to lie down. I can't think about any of this right now," she confessed and the monk's brow furrowed in concern. He gently took her by the arm and guided her to the hut that had been designated for them as guests.

* * *

Come sunlight and the reaching of its zenith, Syrin and Rasaad departed from the drow settlement with fond farewells to their kind hosts. They did not dare to discussion the prophecy, silently agreeing that it was for the best that they not try to decipher those haunting words for the moment.

The days grew warmer as they came further and further south, passing out of the forest and crossing the Starspire Mountains. Once they were out of the cold of the snowy peaks, Syrin found she rarely had need of her cloak anymore. In fact, it was easy for her to work up a sweat merely walking under the afternoon sun. To her delight, her husband opted to forego his shirt most hours of the day. It was a habit of his that she had always immensely enjoyed, but of course now she got to ogle him without restraint. In turn, he seemed to have a particular interest in her legs and the way they looked in her tight black trousers when she walked in front of him. Whenever the mood struck her, she employed this knowledge in seducing him, which made for a couple of rather interesting evenings on their way across the plains.

Eventually, they came to the River Agis, which marked the border between Tethyr and Calimshan. It was so wide that they could not see the other side. No bridges nor ferries were located so far east of the coast to take them across, and so they followed it west for a few days until they reached a ferry station on the Trade Way that would take them across to the great city of Memnon. Rasaad was somewhat excited for this, because it was the place where his mother had been born.

"Gamaz told me that she grew up in Memnon and when she came to childbearing age, she was sold to a merchant, who brought her to Calimport and gave her to another man to settle a debt," he told Syrin as they first glimpsed the outline of Memnon in the distance from the boat that was taking them across the river. The elf's silver eyebrows shot up at this revelation.

"Your mother was a slave?"

"Yes, until she was nineteen. My father met her when she was running an errand for her master and they fell in love. I'm unaware of the details, but he found a way to secure her freedom. It was not long after that that my brother was born."

"I see," Syrin responded simply. "Given everything you've told me about them, I've no doubt your parents would both be very proud of the man you've become."

"You are too kind, my light."

"I try," Syrin teased. At this, Rasaad's hands found her waist and he leaned in to kiss her lips softly. A passing crewman made a disgusted scoff and they broke apart, mortified. They had spent so much time alone together that they had grown used to being able to display such affection for each other whenever the whim arose. They needed to remember to be more discreet now, out of consideration for others and for their own strong sense of privacy.

Lacing her spindly fingers with Rasaad's large, rough ones, Syrin turned to gaze once more at the approaching city. By all accounts, the City of Soldiers was easily as impressive as Baldur's Gate, if not more so. Every caravan on the Trade Way stopped there. On top of that, it was a port. The river teemed with the activity of vessels of every size, from dinghies to massive warships. This alone was a lot for Syrin to take in, but when she finally stepped off the ferry and began to walk through the streets of the city, she was somewhat overwhelmed.

The place was more crowded than either Baldur's Gate or Athkatla. Everyone she passed seemed to be trying to sell her something. She quickly found herself clinging to Rasaad's arm, terrified that they would be separated in the rush of the masses and not really knowing how to behave in this sort of environment.

"Please can we find someplace quiet," she begged him after shaking off a man who had grabbed her shoulder to get her attention. Quickly, Rasaad guided her into a back alley where there was significantly less activity. A few children and a dog ran by them, but they were otherwise undisturbed.

"Are you alright?" the monk inquired.

"Yes. Thank you. I just...I need a moment. You know how I feel about crowds and the heat isn't doing me any favours either." Syrin took several deep breaths to calm herself while Rasaad rubbed her back sympathetically.

"They bother you because you are so obviously foreign. I think we should acquire some new clothing for you so that you might blend in and handle the climate better."

"That's an excellent suggestion," Syrin responded, perking up.

"Come then. It shouldn't be too difficult to find an appropriate merchant in this district." Rasaad offered her his arm and she took hold of it once more, this time in a much calmer manner. With a reassuring nod, he pulled her back into the rush of the bazaar.

After about a half an hour of searching, they found a dealer in garments of fine silk, who was all too happy to present a selection that would fit Syrin's person, though he hadn't a single pair of trousers for her, much to her outrage. Once Rasaad explained to her that trousers were not commonly worn by Calishite women, however, which made the demand rather low, she acquiesced to wearing gowns and the like. She felt much better about it when he told her that she looked radiant in the pale blue robes she wore when they finally emerged from the shop, despite the veil that now concealed all but her eyes.

Covering up her elven features was a necessity if she wished to avoid attention, it seemed. There weren't very many elves in Calimshan and so they were often seen as exotic and even fetishized by some. According to Rasaad, elf slaves fetched a very high price indeed in most markets across the country, including the one they passed as they came through the main square of the _drudach_. Syrin watched in disgust as slavers took bids for their latest stock. The whole business made her sick and she desperately wished there was something that could be done, though she knew that she was in no position to do anything at all, as Rasaad reminded her.

"Syrin," he addressed her in a whisper, urging her to move on with a hand on her shoulder, though she was rooted to the spot in horror as she observed a young child being torn, screaming, from his equally distressed mother. "Remember your promise to Jaheira." Still, the ranger stood her ground, looking on with a determined glint in her eye, suffering as she was from one of her 'screw everything' moments. "There is nothing we can do. Not here. Not now. Not unless you want the _druzir_ to take our heads and those of anyone we helped," Rasaad pressed. This won Syrin over, if only for the fact that he knew about this far better than she did.

"It's revolting," she murmured bitterly as they finally came away, proceeding down a decrepit lane lined with small businesses.

"I know. I'm truly sorry." A somewhat unpleasant silence fell between them after that, which was not cured until Rasaad asked Syrin if she was hungry. They came upon an inn that seemed somewhat less seedy than the others they had seen so far and decided that this was where they would eat and spend the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Hour 18 Nightal 16, 1370 DR

It had only been a day since they had entered Calimshan and the great city of Memnon, but Syrin already felt herself acclimatizing to the heat and the noise. Granted, she had spent most of this morning in her room at the inn, hiding from the sun and immersing herself in a book while Rasaad was out running errands. He was not able to coax her out of the place when he returned, determined as she was to finish the tome in her hands before they set off again. This was fine, since it wasn't as if they were on a tight schedule, so it was not until evening that the were stirred from the comfort of the inn.

A pleasant breeze unsettled the corner of the page Syrin was on as she sat perched by the window, taking advantage of what remained of the day's light. At the edge of her vision, she could see the activity in the alleyway below. She had largely been ignoring it all day, but then she saw an unusual movement and looked down to see a burly human man stuff an unconscious young girl of about twelve into a burlap sack behind a stack of barrels. The ranger knew immediately that she could not let him get away with it, so she instinctively tossed aside her book and leapt out of the window, landing nimbly beside the corpse of a man who looked to have been the girl's bodyguard.

"Give me the girl or I will be forced to end you," Syrin threatened as she faced the abductor, who was quite taken aback by her sudden appearance. Once he recovered, however, he burst into laughter, clearly not taking her seriously because of the way she looked. She drew a large knife she had hidden on her person and twirled it. "You won't find laughing so easy when this is embedded between your third and fourth ribs."

The man did stop snickering, but instead of putting down the sack and attacking Syrin, he vaulted over the barrels with his prize still in hand and sprinted down the alley.

"Stop!" she barked.

"Syrin, what on-" Rasaad had appeared, leaning out of the window from whence she had come and looking confused.

"There's a girl in that sack!" she exclaimed before shooting off after said kidnapper. She wove between bewildered people, their carts of various size and cargo, and more than a few camels, one of which tried to kick her. As best she could, she kept her eyes firmly on her quarry, determined not to let him escape. She chased him into the market, where he knocked over several crates to block her path and she had to dodge a couple of angry produce sellers to keep after him.

When she realized what part of town he was running for, her stomach churned horribly. The slaver stockade came into view and she thought about taking the risk and throwing her knife at the man's back to stop him. She didn't have to make that decision however, because Rasaad sprang out of a side street up ahead, quick as lightning, and slugged the abductor, leaving him sprawled on the ground. He tried to get to his feet and pounce, but in the time that would have taken, Rasaad had already kneed him in the gut and elbowed him between the shoulder blades, leaving him on the ground once more, this time spitting blood and teeth into the sand. The man hissed something that sounded very nasty in Alzhedo and made a grab for Syrin, who had just caught up, but she gracefully stepped aside and planted her knife in his back, killing him.

Rasaad hastily ripped open the burlap sack and pulled out the young girl. He carefully brushed her hair away from the bleeding contusion that adorned her temple and grimaced.

"She does not look like a native and there's a merchant crest on her rather fine cloak. She had a guard with her bearing the same mark. I think it's safe to assume she's the relation of some merchant from the Heartlands," Syrin observed, kneeling down beside her and healing the head injury.

"We had better get her out of here. It's getting dark and the chase has attracted much attention. We should take her back to the inn and help her find her family in the morning," Rasaad suggested, gently picking up the still unconscious child. Syrin nodded in agreement and they made their way back and as quickly and quietly as they could.

The innkeeper, an old, wizened woman in an apron that looked as if it had seen better days, gave the couple a scowl of suspicion when she saw them arrive with the girl. Syrin was quick to explain that they were helping, not hurting, which unfurrowed the old woman's brow and even prompted her to smile and offer to send up a free meal for the child.

"It's no trouble. There needs to be more people like you here, doing something about it when they see wrongdoing," she told them when they accepted. "That poor girl."

The girl woke up a few hours after they brought her to their room. She gasped and shot up from the bed to flatten herself against the nearest wall.

"Stay away from me!" she cried hysterically in Chondathan when she saw Syrin and Rasaad. She had a distinctive Waterdavian accent, the ranger noted.

"It's alright! It's alright. We're not going to hurt you. We only want to help you. I promise," Syrin replied calmly in the same tongue. She pulled down her hood and veil, revealing her elven features. "My name is Syrin. I'm a foreigner like you." The girl settled down significantly at this, though she continued to eye Rasaad warily.

"Wh-Who is he?"

"That's my husband, Rasaad. He's one of Selûne's monks." This seemed to satisfy, because the tension released from the girl's shoulders and she sat back down on the bed.

"I need to find my father," she told the couple, switching to Common so that Rasaad could understand. The monk, who had been staying back so as not to seem more threatening, relaxed and took a few steps forward.

"We will gladly aid you. What is his name?" he said softly.

"Eston Gaevyn. He's the head of the Silver Scythe Trading Company." This explained the scythe that was so prominent in the crest on the girl's cloak. "I'm Celthica. I'm sorry. I should have said sooner," she added shyly.

"It's fine. You've had quite a frightening experience, You're bound to be a little distracted. Speaking of which, you should try to get some rest. It's too dangerous to go out looking for your father right now with it being so dark out, so we'll do it first thing in the morning, alright?" Syrin soothed. Somewhat hesitantly, Celthica nodded in agreement. "Good. There's food if you're hungry." The ranger gestured to the tray on the table in the corner of the room and Celthica's gray eyes lit up, her hunger suddenly quite apparent. She scurried from the bed to retrieve the meal and gave a contented grin when she settled back down and began to eat.

"You are very kind," she told the couple upon finishing off a hunk of bread. Syrin smiled serenely and replied.

"We're only doing what we think is right." Celthica beamed.

* * *

It was a long night, watching over the young human girl who had happened into their care, not because of any troublesome qualities she might have had, but because of the simple fact that she was the child of a powerful merchant and that meant anything could happen. Neither Syrin nor Rasaad managed to get any sleep because of that. Instead, they sat up in the dark, watching and listening for any sign that something was wrong. They spoke quietly to each other, but not extensively, not until sunrise finally greeted them and they knew they would not disturb a sleeping child.

The couple discovered soon after setting out into the streets of Memnon with their charge that morning that Celthica was a patient and optimistic child who was quite clever for her age. She seemed to trust them completely, not out of naïveté, but rather an ability to see that they were sincere in their kindness.

She kept close to them and even slid her little hands into theirs as they walked through the crowded morning markets of the _drudach_. An uncomfortable jolt went up Syrin's arm when she felt small fingers suddenly grasp her hand and it took considerable strength of will for her to stop the extreme fight or flight response she usually had to unexpected physical contact. When she looked down and saw Celthica smiling at her, however, her discomfort melted away. For a moment, she wondered if it was some kind of magic, but then she realized that she was simply taken off guard by such a display of innocence. After all, she had literally seen the last of her own innocence fade and had lived in a grim world for so long that something as simple as a child's smile could have a dramatic effect on her.

Rasaad was likewise rather taken with Celthica. He patiently answered the mountain of questions she seemed to have, which ranged widely in topic, from his tattoos to why snakes can move without legs. Syrin found it quite endearing to watch and wondered if Rasaad was being reminded of his days at the monastery when he had had students.

Celthica spoke a little of her father before they reached the inn where he was staying. Apparently he was a grain merchant, one of the more prominent ones in the industry, and had a reputation for running an honest business. From the way Celthica described him, he seemed to be a good man, which was an impression that held when Syrin and Rasaad finally met him.

Eston Gaevyn was a portly, jolly looking fellow of middle age whose entire bearded face lit up when he saw his daughter enter his rooms. He embraced Celthica fiercely and pressed a loving kiss to the crown of her head when she ran to him.

"Oh, my dear child! Where have you been? I've been so worried about you. I've had my men scouring the city for you all through the night," he gushed.

"I was with them." Celthica pointed to Syrin and Rasaad, who had both respectfully hung back near the door with the Silver Scythe guards who had escorted them in.

"And who are you?" the merchant demanded with an understandable air of suspicion.

"My name is Syrin. This is my husband, Rasaad. We're travellers on our way to Calimport," the ranger began before launching into a full explanation of the events concerning Celthica's disappearance. Eston listened patiently and, in the end, was bursting with gratitude. He beckoned the couple forward and shook both their hands enthusiastically.

"You have done me a great service! Please, allow me to repay you."

"That is not necessary," Rasaad assured the merchant.

"I insist. If you will not accept gold, let me at least offer you a place with my caravan on our way to Calimport." This was a remarkable stroke of luck, since the couple had been planning to join a caravan as a way of crossing the Calim Desert as safely as possible.

"Very well," Syrin agreed before Celthica cut in.

"I'd like to hire you has my new bodyguards for the duration." This came as a surprise to everyone in the room and Syrin and Rasaad looked to each other, having a silent conversation for a few moments before responding.

"We would be honored."

Eston grinned exuberantly, blissfully unaware of the fact that he had just hired two people who were powerful enough to flatten his entire guard force in a matter of minutes to watch over his twelve year old daughter.

* * *

There was much hustle and bustle at the southern gates of Memnon as caravans gathered to make the journey across the Calim Desert, some hailing from as far north as Icewind Dale, some originating from Calimport and returning there for the winter. This was clearly the last big convoy of the year heading south.

As Syrin and Rasaad made their way to the caravan of their new employers, the ranger noted the smell of spices and other intriguing scents in the air. Some people gave them curious looks as they passed, but nothing lingering or suspicious.

"Hiya!" Celthica greeted them cheerfully, waving them over from the door of a deep blue caravan with the Silver Scythe Trading Company's crest emblazoned boldly on the side. In her other hand, she held the reins of two fine white horses. "My father says these are for you."

"That's very generous of him," Syrin replied cordially, taking one set of reins and Rasaad the other.

"He wants you both to have the best of everything he can offer."

"So it would seem. Please pass on our thanks." Celthica gave a cheerful nod at this and scurried off into the caravan. Shrugging at each other, the couple mounted their new steeds and watched as the see of merchant wagons, camels, horses, oxen, and other methods of transport began to gather together properly. People hurried about with last minute preparations. Among them were a scrawny young man in bowl haircut chasing after a wayward chicken and a greasy old woman who seemed to be having it out with her equally greasy husband over where their box of silver spoons and forks should go.

Surprisingly, it was only a few minutes before the convoy started to move the creak of wheels and the rattle of carts filled the air. The city gates opened wide and the ensuing rush of movement felt like suds from a bottle, despite the fact that they were barely going faster than a stocky man's run. The convoy was unleashed into the desert, kicking up clouds of sand, many granules of which Syrin could feeling harassing her exposed eyes.

"You'll get used to it," Rasaad chuckled as he watched her incessantly blink.

"Why do I get the feeling that later I'm going to find sand in places on my body there should never be sand?" Syrin groaned back and the monk continued to laugh, which she took to mean that he thought she was being overdramatic. In mock protest, she quickened her pace and rode ahead of him.

"Forgive me, Syrin. I was born here. There is probably sand in my blood," he apologized upon catching up with her.

"I'd suspect you of being a sand golem at this point if your mouth weren't so soft," Syrin joked with a leer and a wiggle of the eyebrows, whispering so that only Rasaad could possibly hear and he made an odd sputtering sound that she found quite satisfactory. "Did you get a little sand in your brain?" she teased.

"Why do you toy with me so?"

"Toying? What toying? If I were actually toying with you, Rasaad, I'd do it in private. You of all people should know that." This succeeded in turning the monk bright red and Syrin allowed herself to grin devilishly, because no one could see it under her veil.

"I'm digging my own grave with each word I utter, aren't I?" Rasaad sighed.

"Indeed."

"This is your revenge, yes?"

"Yes, but I'm not done."

"When will you be done?"

"Later...in private." Rasaad covered his face with his hand at this, attempting to conceal the depth of his embarrassment. Syrin could no longer stop herself from letting out a cackle. "You just keep walking right into every trap I set."

"It's a shame that I cannot at least see your smile," Rasaad commented calmly, attempting to regain some of his dignity, "but I suppose I'll have the opportunity to make you smile again _later_." The suggestiveness in his tone was unmistakeable and thus it was Syrin's turn to sputter like a flustered adolescent.

"Damn it. You're learning. This isn't good for business."

"Oh? And what business is that?"

"The revenge business."

"Ah. Therein is your problem. You are challenging a master in that art."

Syrin's jaw dropped. Not only had Rasaad made a joke about his tragic history, but he had punctuated it with what could only be described as a smirk, an expression which he had never really worn before. She would have been lying if she had said she wasn't a little turned on by it.

"Who are you and what have you done with Rasaad yn Bashir?"

"You see him before you. I have simply grown in my many seasons close at the side of a woman who wields her sharp wit without mercy."

Syrin could not come up with a single thing to say to this that did not betray the highly inappropriate nature of the thoughts that were swimming in her mind, so she remained silent and narrowed her eyes at Rasaad to convey that she was reluctantly admitting defeat.

Her day was not going well so far. Her eyes were being assaulted by sand and she had been made to fall on the sword of her own repartee by a man notorious for not being able to see a joke, even if it danced in front of him wearing luminescent pantaloons. Luckily, said man was also very good at providing comfort.

"You _will_ get used to the sand; I promise," Rasaad assured her sincerely after a long silence had passed between them. "And I doubt you shall have to suffer any further bouts of cleverness from me."

"Who says I suffered? Maybe I liked it," Syrin challenged, fiddling with the reins in her hands somewhat coyly. Rasaad's dark eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Did you?"

"A little, yeah."

"Duly noted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I already had completed when I made the initial post. From here on out, updates will be significantly slower, for which I apologize in advanced, although nobody seems to give a fuck about this anyway, so *shrug*.


	7. Chapter 7

Hour 3 Nightal 24, 1370 DR

Syrin walked along a dark and narrow stone corridor. The walls were caked in grime and blood and other things she could not and did not want to name. No sound reached her ears but that of her own shallow breaths until, in the distance, there came the clink and scrape of chains across the floor. It filled her with dread and she broke into a run. The walls seemed to close in on her and her breathing quickened even further as she began to shimmy down the passage. A feeling of almost being to the end, to freedom, filled her with hope, but then her hands found the cold, slimy iron of a thick grate. A sickeningly familiar laugh sounded, high and chilling.

"You are nothing," the voice of Jon Irenicus sneered, "an empty shell, the refuse of an experiment." Syrin felt the pang of hurt in her heart and she pulled desperately at the grate, but to no avail. The voice deepened, transforming into her brother's.

"You're a monster, sister. A mindless beast born to destroy everything you touch. Embrace the madness. Let it take you and slaughter everything you love, for there can be no joy in your life unless you let it be murder," Sarevok taunted. His hand reached out from the darkness and grabbed her wrist between the bars. She resisted, but he pulled harder and she passed through the metal as if it were not even there. In a fit of panic, she threw a punch where she thought her brother's face was.

"Syrin..." Rasaad's voice came in a wheeze. She blinked and she saw her husband standing before her. It was he who had grabbed her wrist, not Sarevok. Looking down, she saw her hand, transformed into the Slayer's claw, pierced clear through Rasaad's chest. Blood spilled from his lips and the expression of pain and betrayal in his brown eyes was unbearable.

The shadows surrounding them came alive and grasped at Syrin. She writhed wildly, fighting them off with everything she had, but it was not enough. They were pulling her down...down...Rasaad's voice was becoming strangely more urgent as he said her name, over and over...

"Syrin!"

Her eyes shot open and she found herself on her back with Rasaad looming over her, pinning her down by her wrists as she brandished the knife she usually kept stowed in her boot and struggled against him. Her throat felt raw and she realized she was screaming. Coming to her senses, she fell silent, letting go of the knife and stilling. The flap of their tent was roughly pulled open to reveal several bewildered guardsmen holding weapons.

"What in the Nine Hells is going on here?!" one of them demanded. "It sounded like someone was being murdered!"

"We sorry for causing alarm. Syrin was simply having a nightmare," Rasaad responded calmly, releasing his hold on his wife. The guardsmen narrowed their eyes at him in suspicion and looked to the ranger, who slowly nodded. Only at that did they seem to believe Rasaad's explanation. They left, warning the pair not to cause any further disturbances.

After a beat of uncomfortable silence in the tent, Syrin sat up and covered her face in her hands. She felt drained and a little nauseous. Her nerves were still on edge from the dream and she was deeply disturbed, not just by what she had seen, but by the fact that she appeared to have tried to kill Rasaad in her sleep. She wanted to run far away and isolate herself and so before Rasaad could say anything to her, she fled from their tent. The frigid night air of the desert greeted her immediately, but she pressed on single-mindedly, coming to stand next to what remained of the evening's campfire at the center of the large circle of tents which were occupied by Gaevyn's men. The strong scent of burnt wood and ash still permeated the area.

"Syrin," Rasaad addressed her firmly and she felt his hand grasp her shoulder, prompting her to shoot him a very nasty look as she shrugged him off.

"Leave me be," she told him darkly and he scowled.

"Please, I must speak with you."

"I need to be alone, Rasaad."

"You just had a terrible nightmare. I should think being alone is the last thing you need."

"And yet-"

"This is important, Syrin. Listen to me. Do not shut me out. I beg you."

"Back off," the ranger commanded rather forcefully. "I said I want to be alone and I bloody well meant it." A look of shock came across Rasaad's features at this and he took a step back. Understandable, considering this was the very first time she had ever directed such an angry, cold tone at him. After a few seconds, the astonishment in his eyes gave way to hurt, but Syrin's emotions were too raw for her to process guilt, and so she simply turned away from him and waited stiffly for him to give in and return to the tent.

For what seemed like hours, she stood there and let the wind turn her numb with cold. Her stomach continued to churn from the dream for some time and there were a few moments when she was afraid she would actually be sick. She was so terrified of the mere idea that her nightmares were something more than dreams that she couldn't bear to be near anyone. In her mind, there was too great a possibility that whatever had made her try to stab her husband would come back and send her on a killing spree. There was no way she was going to sleep again, that was for certain.

After a while, however, the freezing wind and her exhaustion brought her shuffling back into the tent. She found Rasaad sitting up, crosslegged, meditating with his eyes closed. He did not open them when she approached. Wordlessly, she sat down beside him and assumed the same position. Meditation was the only solace she could have without talking to Rasaad at this point.

The rest of the night passed in silence, neither Syrin nor Rasaad moving at all. Only when the sounds of a great deal of activity outside reached them did they budge. They packed their things without a word to each other or even the briefest eye contact. By the time they were once again cantering alongside Gaevyn's caravan, Syrin's guilt finally caught up with her and she felt a terrible pain in her chest when she looked at Rasaad and saw in his stiff body language exactly how much she had upset him. It was bad enough that she was having horrific nightmares again, but to not be on speaking terms with the person closest to her heart as well was almost more than she could bear.

"Rasaad..." she began softly, watching him carefully and praying that he would at least look at her when she addressed him. He did not. "Rasaad, I'm truly sorry for my behaviour last night. I don't know what came over me. There was little thinking involved, I can tell you that much. Normally, I can lock down my emotions, but I just felt _so_ _angry_ and I don't even know _why_. I was terrified. Quite frankly, I still am," the ranger rambled on nervously. "That's not an excuse, though. I shouldn't have shut you down like that."

"Are you going to talk to me about it now instead of running away?" Rasaad responded after a long, tense moment.

"Yes."

"Then I forgive you." He finally looked over at her and she could she the hint of a smile on his face, which relieved her more than anything.

"Thank you." Syrin took a deep breath before she began her retelling of her nightmare. She paused a few times to hold back the nausea it brought on. Rasaad's eyes went wide when she spoke of the Slayer's claw impaling him, although he seemed far more concerned about the effect it had had on her, rather than his own discomfort at the idea.

"It can't possibly mean anything. You gave up your Bhaal essence."

"Yes, but I'll never be fully free of his taint. I am his creation, after all. What if there's still enough of his evil in my blood to drive me to madness? What if it's already started? I tried to kill you in my sleep and-"

"Syrin, let me at least make one thing clear to you. You did not just start attacking me. You were screaming and flailing and when I tried to wake you up, some part of you must have perceived a threat, because you pulled your knife to defend yourself. That's what I was trying to tell you before," Rasaad explained calmly, interrupting the elf before she could work herself into an anxiety attack. She did a double take, not sure that she had heard correctly. In her experience, things never turned out to be better than they seemed to be. In fact, the exact opposite was usually the case.

"Then I'm not...I'm not..."

"You're not losing grip of yourself, no. You're simply used to a life where such reflexes are necessary, a life which would leave anyone with nightmares. I have them too, although their content tends to be slightly different," the monk assured Syrin as he adjusted his white cowl to better shade his face from the harsh desert sun, which was nearing its zenith.

"Your body can tell the difference between dream and reality, though," Syrin grumbled, moodily staring ahead at the back of the guardsman riding in front of them.

"Do not hold yourself to my standard. I am a trained monk. Regulating the relationship between my mind and body is essential to what I do." This was a fair point, one which genuinely comforted Syrin.

"Perhaps you should teach me a few things," she suggested softly. "If nothing else, I want to at least be able to stop disturbing others at night. For one thing, I don't like the way the Waterdavians look at you and I don't want to give them any kind of excuse to mistreat you."

"Don't concern yourself with that. It is my problem. I will deal with it." Rasaad sounded very much like he was used to this kind of thing by now. People from the lands north of Calimshan tended to be pretty damn prejudiced against Calishites, but Syrin had always thought the reactions Rasaad got were on the mild side because he had been going around dressed as a Selûnite monk. Ever since he had begun to wear plainer clothing, strangers had been much less amicable towards him.

"If you think I'm just going to sit quietly and watch these people treat you like dirt-"

"Syrin. I am not asking you to be passive. I simply do not wish for you to further burden yourself when there is already so much weighing on your mind. I will handle whatever ill intent the others show me for being Calishite; I promise," Rasaad assured her firmly. She wanted to argue, but she decided against it for now, since they had only just recovered from their last major disagreement.

* * *

The regimen of the convoy stopping at dusk was settling in as routine in Syrin's mind now. After dismounting her horse, she watched the scuttling about of the others as they set up camp. She would have described it as being like the timely, practiced movements of gears in gnomish machinery were it not for the fact that there was a certain amount of chaos that defined the image before her. The only person in the whole area who didn't seem to be afflicted by any degree of clumsiness in their chosen task was her husband, who was almost unnaturally orderly in the way he was going about setting up their tent. She smiled fondly to herself as she observed him, remembering how she had felt the first time she had seen him do this all those seasons ago, not far from Nashkel. Oh, how innocent she had been in those days.

"Syrin!" The familiar voice of the young Celthica Gaevyn drew her attention in time for her to see the girl herself run up, looking overly jubilant.

"Good evening, Celthica. What's got you so excited?" the ranger greeted warmly.

"Father just told me that the daughter of one of his affiliates came of age today and there's going to be a huge celebration! Our entire caravan is invited!" The girl bounced on her heels as she delivered the news and Syrin quirked a silvery eyebrow at her.

"That explains why everyone seems a tad more eager to get camp set up than usual."

"Are you going to join in?"

"Perhaps."

"If you do, will you sing for everyone? I heard you the other night; you have a very pretty voice."

Well, that was unexpected, but flattery wasn't going to change the fact that Syrin avoided public attention wherever possible. Folding her thin arms behind her back, she took a deep breath and answered honestly, despite not wanting to disappoint Celthica.

"That's very kind of you, my friend, but I am no bard. I don't have the necessary skills for a proper performance."

"Would you sing something just for me, then?" Another unexpected question. Syrin wandered with Celthica towards the tent that Rasaad had just finished setting up off to the side of the others. It was a little more private than their usual placement, which they had decided was needed in light of the previous night's events.

"I don't know. What would you like to hear?"

"Something Elvish." Syrin considered this for a moment. For an elf, she knew pitifully few songs in Elvish. The first one that came to mind was a hymn she had heard in Suldanessellar during the ceremony that had been held to honour the fallen. Somehow, she didn't think that would be appropriate here, given that the subject was death, but the alternative was something rather racy and she was _not_ about to sing that to a twelve year old, even if the girl didn't understand the words.

"Very well." Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Syrin began to sing. Long, eerie notes soared from between her thin lips, softly at first, but they slowly crescendoed to a keening note that was like a melodic moan of grief. The notes that followed were soft again and even after the last had faded, Syrin continued to stand still with her eyes closed, listening to the residual ring of it. When she opened them, she looked down to see that Celthica was crying and she panicked. "Forgive me, I didn't mean-" she began, but the girl cut her off.

"That was beautiful." A smile came to Celthica's lips and she hastily rubbed the moisture from her face. "What did it mean?"

"The song speaks of the passage of autumn into winter. It's symbolic of the way of all life." Syrin didn't want to come right out and admit that it was about death, but thankfully Celthica seemed to understand.

"It sounded as if you were singing from the heart."

"Yes." This answer came at almost a whisper. It was oddly difficult for Syrin to admit the tragedy of her life to a child.

"May I ask what happened?"

"A better question would be what didn't happen," Syrin mused dryly. The young girl looked vaguely terrified at the comment. "I'm sorry. There are horrors in my past, Celthica. Horrors few people can understand. Just know that no matter what you might hear, I would never do anything to hurt you or any other innocent person." Gently, the elf touched her hand to Celthica's shoulder and the girl gave a sad smile of acceptance.

"You're not like other adults, Syrin. You don't treat me like I don't know anything. Thank you."

"Ah, well, the secret to that is that I don't know what I'm doing anymore than you do and I'm willing to admit it." The ranger gave a self-deprecating laugh, patting Celthica on the shoulder. Surprisingly, the young human did seem to find this quite encouraging, for she beamed and practically skipped over to Rasaad, who was busy unloading things from his horse. For a moment, Syrin watched her chat the monk's ear off, but then the elf turned her attention to her reflective thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

Hour 4 Nightal 26, 1370 DR

The celebrations in the camp were raucous and lasted all through the night. Syrin and Rasaad would have been hard pressed to avoid the festivities if they had tried, though they happily participated in their own way. There was plenty of food and drink to go around, though the couple largely abstained from the latter, not wishing to lose their faculties, particularly among so many strangers. They did partake in a few of the dances, however. Syrin was far less reluctant than she otherwise would have been with Rasaad there to hold her and guide her steps.

It was well into the night when they finally quitted the party and made towards their own tent, feeling tired but nevertheless quite alive. Syrin could not wait to tug off her boots and flop into the bedroll with Rasaad like a couple of starfish. For the moment, all seemed right with the world and it would be made perfect if she could just fall asleep with her forehead rested between Rasaad's shoulder blades and her arms around his waist, holding him tight to her as she breathed in his comfortingly familiar scent.

It was not to be quite yet, it seemed, however. She had only just taken hold of the tent flap went it occurred to her that she need to make sure that Celthica was alright.

"Hold on. I'm going to go check on our charge. She may need an escort back to the caravan," Syrin informed Rasaad somewhat drowsily. "I'll be back soon. Promise." After giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she turned right back around and tiredly shuffled off in the direction in which she was most likely to find their employer's daughter.

The camp was mostly quiet now but for the far off sounds of the party continuing elsewhere in the site. The cold night air finally registered with Syrin and she folded her arms around herself to stave off the chill, though it helped very little. She made her way towards the lights in distance and thought of how she hoped Celthica hadn't gotten into any trouble.

The elf was about halfway back to the party when a small noise reached her ears that came from behind her. Immediately, her head snapped around to see what it was. She observed nothing but the subtle sway of a tent flap, as if the wind of someone closely passing by had disturbed it only a moment before. Her experience told her that was most definitely not something she should ignore, so she deviated from her path to investigate. To her surprise, the problem presented itself before she could discover it.

"Syrin!" a familiar masculine voice called in a whisper. She came around the back of a caravan to see who it was.

"Captain Tamasryn?" The note of surprise was clear in Syrin's voice as she looked upon the ginger haired captain of the Silver Scythe guard. "What on Toril are you doing here?" Slowly, she approached him and he seemed oddly pleased to see her.

"I followed you from the celebration. I want to help you," he answered, which only served to further confuse Syrin.

"Sorry? Help me with what?"

"I'm going to free you." He took a few steps closer to her, coming right to the edge of her personal space, and she frowned.

"I still don't understand."

"A woman as beautiful as you deserves better than to be the slave of a Calishite. You need no longer be his exotic elven plaything." At this, it all fell into place in Syrin's head and anger boiled up inside her, but she restrained herself as best she could. She smelt the strong stench of alcohol on Tamasryn's breath and hoped that this was all just a drunken confusion.

"Captain, I am no one's plaything. Rasaad is my husband," she told him very firmly.

"You needn't keep up the façade. I know how he mistreats you. I have seen the tortured look in your eyes," the guardsman continued and Syrin's brow furrowed even further.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You're drunk. My husband is a good man and do _not_ need any rescuing."

"Clearly he has put you under some spell of obedience. Let me free you, Syrin." The captain pulled the veil down off her face, but before he could bring his lips anywhere near hers, she slapped him hard across the face and he staggered back, wincing in pain.

"Stop it!" she hissed. "You. Are. Drunk." Still, Tamasryn persisted, grabbing Syrin by the shoulders. She tried to push him off, but he kept hold of her as he fell and she was dragged to the ground with him. Despite his inebriation, he seemed fully possessed of his a strength and they struggled, rolling in the sand for a long, tense moment until Syrin's anger broke free and she pinned him down with no small amount of force, her voice like thunder as she barked at him, "You know nothing of me, you ignorant, prejudiced fool! I am no one's slave! I am something you could never understand!"

A sudden expression of horror came to the captain's face and he trembled in Syrin's grasp.

"By the gods! Your eyes! Wh-what are you!?" he gasped, squirming to be free of her. Coming back to herself, she jumped to her feet and let him scramble away. There was a long pause of silence in his absence in which she stood frozen, trying process what had just happened, which ended when she caught sight of Celthica peeking out from behind a wagon. Syrin's heart jumped into her throat at the thought that the girl had seen everything.

"Celthica..." she breathed, voice wavering. She expected the child to run away, but instead she came out and approached.

"Your eyes...they glowed...they glowed yellow..." Celthica murmured and Syrin instantly felt very sick.

"Please don't be afraid of me," the elf begged, panic rising like a tidal wave inside her.

"I'm not," the girl responded simply, coming steadily closer. "Are you alright?"

"Celthica, I'm going to tell you something and I need you to promise me that you will keep it a secret." The young Gaevyn nodded in affirmation and Syrin felt her entire body begin to shake quite violently. She could barely stand by the time she had taken a deep breath and spoken again. "I'm a Bhaalspawn. Do you know what that is?" Celthica nodded once more.

"I heard whispers about them when the caravan was in Tethyr. You're not like what people said about them, though. You protect people, not hurt them. Of course I'll keep your secret."

Syrin could give no reply to this, because she had fallen into a full on panic attack. She was no longer able to suppress the awful sensation of her insides tying themselves into knots. Bracing herself against the side of the nearby caravan, she bent over and emptied her stomach.

"I'm going to get Rasaad," Celthica told her with a sudden urgency, before dashing off back the way Syrin had come.

When she had stopped being sick, Syrin's legs finally gave out and she collapsed to her knees. Her hands dug into the sand, trying to find purchase, something to hold onto and keep her steady as her mind reeled and her body was racked by uncontrollable tremors.

Her eyes had glowed. How was that possible? Bhaal's power was gone from her. Was it coming back somehow? Was she a danger to those around her? What was going to happen now? What would Captain Tamasryn tell Lord Gaevyn?

It seemed an age that she was alone with these thoughts, but then she felt the warmth of Rasaad's hand on her back and heard him say her name in a worried tone, at which she calmed slightly. She was then vaguely aware that she was being lifted and that Celthica was explaining to Rasaad what had happened.

By the time she really came back to her senses, she was lying in their tent with a thick blanket covering her, her husband sitting beside her and watching her vigilantly.

"Rasaad..." she muttered exhaustedly and he gave a start.

"Yes?"

"It's back."

"What's back?"

"The taint."

"No, Syrin. No. You're mind is playing tricks on you, leading you to false dire conclusions out of fear. Sarevok's eyes glow, despite the fact that he is cut off from Bhaal's power. The only logical explanation is that it is simply a feature of divine heritage, regardless of any connection to the god's power." This answer came out quick and prepared, as if Rasaad had anticipated that this issue would come up when she became more lucid and meant to head her off before she could try to run away again. As he spoke, he gently held her face in his hand and stroked her cheek soothingly with his thumb, making her feel a great deal more at ease than she had been before.

Upon giving it a moment's thought, she chose to trust his judgement. After all, he had some knowledge of the workings of divine magic and what he had said seemed a perfectly reasonable rationale. More than anything, however, she simply wanted it to be true, because if it was not, she feared she might finally fall into madness.

"What about the captain?"

"We will discuss what is to be done about him later. For now, you need to rest." Given how Syrin felt like she had run the length of the Sword Coast, this was an easy suggestion to follow. Leaning into her husband's touch, she closed her eyes and hoped that a dreamless sleep would take her.

* * *

Only a few hours passed before Syrin found herself awake once more. She could hear everyone else in the camp busy packing up and was stricken with a sudden sense of urgency, not wanting to be left behind. She abruptly sat up, intending to spring into action in getting together her own things, but she was just as quickly hit with a wave of nausea. Stumbling from the tent, she tried to get herself out of open view and was sick for the second time in less than a day. It wasn't quite as bad as the first occasion for the simple fact that there wasn't much of anything left in her stomach to expel.

"Syrin!?" Rasaad's voice called, sounding rather alarmed, and the elf soon found her companion's hand on her back. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not sure. This isn't how my body typically handles panic," she responded meekly after wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

"Perhaps we should seek out a healer."

"No, I think I'll be fine. The nausea is passing," Syrin assured an increasingly anxious looking Rasaad as she straightened and turned back to their tent.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes." This seemed enough to satisfy the monk and he began to help her finish getting together their possessions.

Once they were finally on their way once more, Syrin felt well enough to eat something and discuss what should be done about Captain Tamasryn. Seeing as he clearly hadn't said anything to Lord Gaevyn yet, they hoped that the man had either been too drunk at the time to remember what had happened or was keeping his mouth shut out of fear. Still, the matter filled Syrin with a feeling of unease, knowing as she did that there remained a chance that something would develop.

It also deeply concerned her that Tamasryn was under the impression that she was Rasaad's slave. What if this was an opinion shared by the other Waterdavians? Would they stir up trouble as well? Rasaad insisted that if anyone tried to start anything, he would handle it, since it was him that they all seemed to have a problem with. Syrin remained skeptical due to her haunting experience with the captain, who had deliberately sought her out when she was alone.

Later that day, Celthica confided in the young couple that she firmly believed her father would trust them if the issue was ever brought before him. When they pressed her to elaborate, she gave the reason that they had saved her life and thus earned a permanent place in her father's good book. This provided them with enough reassurance to relax a little for the next few days, despite the fact that Gaevyn's men were steadily growing more hostile to Rasaad.

Syrin was starting to adapt to the terrible heat of the desert and the constant irritation of sand, though she was still irked by her lack of trousers. Well, irked up until the moments when Rasaad decided to thoroughly enjoy her lack of trousers. As far as she was concerned, that was the only true benefit that these silk gowns offered her.

The new year soon came and with it another letter from Aerie, which arrived in the talons of a falcon, of all things. It read:

_Dearest Syrin,_

_I hope that you are doing well and that your journey has been a pleasant one thus far. You were quite right about the pirates in the Sea of Fallen Stars. Our ship was attacked by a pirate vessel and boarded. Of course, we did our part to defend our ship and were successful at driving off our attackers. The captain seemed particularly grateful for this and returned the fee we had paid for our place aboard the ship, which was very generous of him, to say the least. Fortunately, that's the most excitement we've had thus far._

_Minsc and I have finally reached Telflamm and it is an amazing city, full of dazzling sights that almost defy description. There are halls of gold and white stone and the markets are filled with a wider variety of goods than we ever saw in Athkatla or Trademeet. Humans from Yoshimo's homeland of Kara-Tur are here in numbers, many of them merchants. It is a very different environment from the Sword Coast and yet somehow all too familiar at the same time._

_We hope to be in Rashemen by the time the Year of the Unstrung Harp begins. I would like to arrive before the snow comes up to my hips. I imagine that you are not suffering the winter as we are, though I'm not sure that I envy you, if you have reached the Calim Desert by now. Certainly not if you are just as frustrated by Rasaad's immunity to the heat as I am by Minsc's resilience to the cold._

_I hope your honeymoon has been everything that you desired it to be. If nothing else, I'm sure being alone with Rasaad so much is pleasant for you._

_Fondest wishes,_

_Aerie_

Syrin could not resist a giggle when she read that last sentence. Aerie was growing up, it seemed. The ranger passed the letter to Rasaad, who found equal amusement in the latter part.

"I should certainly hope you enjoy our time alone together. I do my very best to please you, after all," he chuckled as he returned the folded parchment.

"Yes. Yes, you do. And the effort is greatly appreciated, let me assure you." There was distinct lack of subtlety in Syrin's tone as she spoke, causing Rasaad to raise his eyebrows at her. He said nothing, but noticeably began to hold himself with a particular air of pride and confidence that admittedly tickled the ranger.

When next they made camp, she scrounged up a bit of parchment to make a reply to Aerie, detailing her own journey thus far. She was careful to leave out most of the more frightening experiences, not wanting to horrify or worry her friend, and instead simply expressed how glad she was that it was rarely the case that both she and Rasaad lost their calm at the same time. If one of them was suffering a lack of control, the other almost invariably provided a counter balance. She supposed that that was how good marriages were meant to work. Goodness knows, that was how Jaheira and Khalid's marriage had seemed to work. The inner mechanics of Aerie and Minsc's relationship was a subject of great curiosity to Syrin as well, but she did not pry. If Aerie wanted to discuss her feelings for the Rashemi, she would do it on her own terms.

Syrin end the letter with an added note on Minsc's behalf about the notable absence of any bees whatsoever in the Calim Desert, though there were birds occasionally. She then gave the folded document to the poor falcon to take back all the way across Faerûn and joined Rasaad and Celthica in a game of Talis. Watching the monk lose spectacularly at cards to a twelve year old was one of the best ways Syrin could think of to celebrate the coming of the new year, especially since it made her forget for a time that there still a few more days until they reached Calimport, a few more days for her tenuous position to become a dangerous one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was messy, to say the least, but I hope to make up for it with what's coming in the next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gearing up to get to this part for so long and now that I've finally written it, I'm more excited than ever. Hopefully, you all enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. This is what happens when I brainstorm while listening to The Mummy Returns OST.

Hour 14 Hammer 2, 1371 DR

 

Captain Tamasryn seemed too frightened of Syrin to speak to anyone of what had happened between them, if his jumpiness whenever she was near was any indication. This left the ranger with few concerns, much to her relief, and she was able to once more just sit back and have her honeymoon.

After one got past all the harshness of the desert, she could see that there was a beauty and a majesty to it, much as any other naturally formed place in the world. The perfect slopes of the winding dunes were entrancing and she gazed off in the distance at them reverently as they cantered along in the convoy.

“That is one of the things that I enjoy about my homeland,” Rasaad told Syrin when she shared her observations with him. “There is a serenity in the dunes.”

“And danger,” she added.

“This is true. Just as your land has thunderstorms and blizzards, mine has sandstorms. They can sweep you away and bury you forever.”

“One might say the desert commands respect for both its splendor and its terror, I suppose,” Syrin mused, glancing over at her husband, who was giving her a peculiar look.

“It is much like you, then.” There was a hint of a playful smile on the monk's lips as he spoke, which she immediately echoed.

“You certainly know how to make a girl blush.” If there was anything that Rasaad was good at in conversation, it was turning a philosophical discussion into the perfect opportunity to pay her a compliment. Somehow, he managed to take her off guard every single time he did it.

“As with many things, I am learning.”

“Speaking of learning, I think it's long past time for my next Alzhedo lesson.”

“That it is,” Rasaad responded, switching to his native tongue. “Speak of the desert to me.”

Syrin cleared her throat and opened her mouth to reply as best she could, but she was cut off by someone calling out in Common.

“Ugh, my ears are bleeding. Make those ugly sounds somewhere else!” This sparked a flame of rage inside Syrin and she looked back over her shoulder at the offending guardsman.

“Amyn saelaer tam gwethet san senyn!” she quipped in Chondathan. Some of the guards whistled or laughed, others scowled.

“Don't, Syrin. Whatever you say, it'll only encourage them to be even more insulting,” Rasaad pleaded. She would have let it go if not for what the guard said next.

“What's the matter, Calimite? Are you so little of a man that your wife has to stick up for you?” he goaded and Syrin gritted her teeth, readying a few choice words. To her surprise, however, Rasaad beat her to it.

“You may say what you wish of me; I will simply ignore you. But I will not allow you to disrespect Syrin,” he responded, a hard edge to his tone.

“Ha! What are you going to do about it?”

“I will report your conduct to Lord Gaevyn.” This was apparently not at all what the guards had expected, because they were all suddenly struck with dumbfounded expressions. Syrin allowed herself a smile beneath her veil and quietly offered her praise.

“That shut them up. Well done.”

“He expected a fight, proof that my people are all hot-blooded and vicious. I will not give him what he wants,” Rasaad told her with a shrug. It was a reminder of how he was wise far beyond his years.

“Ai armiel telere maenen hir,” she declared fondly in Elvish, almost too softly for even her husband to hear.

“What does that mean?”

“It's difficult to accurately translate. It's like an expression of love, but so much more.”

“What is the literal translation?”

Syrin opened her mouth to tell him, but before she could get the words out, there came a deafening _crack_ , like that of a tree splitting in two, only much louder. Accompanying the sound was a great bolt of lightning that blew apart one of the caravans ahead.

“What the f-” one of the guards began, but he was stopped short by the booming sound of deep laughter and the screams of many as a massive blue scaled creature swooped in out of seemingly nowhere and snatched up a few mounted soldiers from a Neverwintan caravan in its claws to drop them from high in the air, the horses screeching like demons all the way. If this was not terrifying enough, a horde of humans dressed all in black descended upon the road from both sides, following the dragon's laughter like a battlecry.

The entire convoy was thrown into chaos. No one seemed to know what do or which way to run. Syrin swore loudly and did her best to keep her horse from bucking her off in its panic. She could see the blue dragon coming down for another pass and she sprang into action.

“Rasaad, look after Celthica and be ready to punch a dragon,” she ordered before galloping right into danger, giving him no time to object. Yanking off her veil and drawing her bow, she fired arrow after arrow at the approaching threat. A few struck, getting the creature's attention. He veered from his course and headed straight for her. “That's right. Focus on me, you arrogant brute. Those special little arrows hurt your pride, didn't they?” she muttered, racing away from the convoy as quickly as she could.

When the dragon was almost close enough to pluck her up, she rolled off her horse, letting it escape as she turned to face her foe. With a grand lifting gesture, glowing vines burst out of the sand and grabbed at the dragon, pulling him down. He roared and beat his wings wildly, trying to tear himself free. He failed to manage it before Syrin nimbly climbed onto his back, however, and she was carried with him into the sky. Upon realizing her presence, he immediately did a vertical dive and she would have tumbled off if she had not thought quickly and plunged both of her swords into the base of his neck, giving her something substantial to hold onto.

“You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” she said as the wyrm shrieked and she clung to the grips of her blades for dear life.

“I am Baeshravirlym the Dune Terror! I will not be mocked by you, puny elf!” the dragon growled before doing a series of loops in the air in an attempt to throw Syrin off. His back spines cut her in several places as she was tossed about and she hissed in pain, but did not relinquish her hold, even with the wind battering her relentlessly.

Switching tactics, Baeshravirlym headed back towards the convoy, which now looked more like a battlefield. Syrin could easily spot Rasaad on the ground among the clashing humans because he had surrounded himself and Celthica in a circle of flame. Realizing what the dragon was about to do, her heart leapt into her throat and she pulled her swords from the blue neck before her and swiftly replanted them in one of Baeshravirlym's wing joints, twisting until it became readily apparent that she had impaired the muscles of the limb. With a bellow of agony, he began to plummet, unable to keep themselves in the air with only one fully functional wing.

It was at this point that Syrin realized that she had not thought this through entirely. Baeshravirlym's fall would be hers as well and being a hard, scaly thing, he would not provide a much of a cushion.

“Maybe I should have let Imoen come,” she muttered. Her sister would have a spell for this, surely. She had no more time to think on it, however. The dragon crashed spectacularly into the ground just beyond the battle. Sand flew everywhere, as if there had been an explosion. The impact was strong enough to rip Syrin from her swords and send her flying. To her great misfortune, Baeshravirlym was still very much alive and flailing. His tail caught her as she tried to get to her feet and tossed her into a warrior and the raider he was fighting, bowling them both over.

“Syrin!” she heard Rasaad shout. She was too dazed to look about for him effectively, but she soon felt strong hands pulling her to her feet and she knew it was him.

“Just like old times, eh?” she joked and tasted blood in her mouth. She was fairly certain that most of her ribs were fractured as well, going by the severe pain in her chest every time she took a breath. “Where's Celthica?”

“Proving herself quite capable. Now, are you alright? Can you fight?” Rasaad responded urgently, brushing her hair from her face. Retrieving an azure bottle from her magic bag, she gulped down the healing potion it contained and then chucked it at the head of a nearby raider, watching it smash magnificently across their temple.

“Ready when you are.”

Without another word between them, the pair turned their attention to Baeshravirlym, who seemed to be going on a rampage of indiscriminate destruction, attacking both adversaries and his supposed allies. The screams could be heard over practically anything else. Syrin and Rasaad dashed forward, summoning swords and fists of flame. The monk reached their huge enemy first and it was an awe inspiring sight indeed to see him match the dragon's strength, blocking strikes from large claws as if he were fighting just another man. Still more impressive was the uppercut he delivered when Baeshravirlym attempted to capture him in his maw. The blue lizard's enormous head was knocked back, leaving him open to Syrin darting in and slicing at his exposed chest. It was easy for her to slide her fire blades up under his plate scales and sear his flesh.

“You will not stick your pathetic needles in me!” Baeshravirlym snarled and Syrin quickly found herself weaving between thrashing limbs, trying desperately to avoid being squashed like an insect. A blast of silver flame from Rasaad's palm brought the dragon's attention back to him and with it a massive bolt of lightning which the human was only barely swift enough to escape. He dove out of the way and as he rolled, a claw came down on him. Hard.

“Rasaad!” Syrin cried in horror. At the same time, she heard a child's scream and that was when she caught sight of Celthica standing nearby, bloody dagger in hand. “Run!” the ranger ordered, the familiar pressure of panic taking hold in her heart. She did not get to see whether or not Celthica had obeyed her, because she was once again forced to dance between Baeshravirlym's legs and tail, getting in little more than glancing blows with her swords. There then came an all too familiar _whoosh_ and a column of silver flame fell upon his mighty head. With an earsplitting screech, the scaly beast stumbled to one side and collapsed, leaving Syrin free to retrieve the her real blades and cut his head from his body, a feat which took no small amount of effort, but ensure that Baeshravirlym was dead.

When she stood victorious, spattered in dragon blood and gore, she turned to see Rasaad's broken body lying limply in the sand, his fist outstretched from summoning the beam of holy fire. She rushed to his side and survey his injuries. It was bad, to put it quite simply, bad enough that she feared her minor healing powers would not be sufficient to stabilize him. His breaths were coming out as weak rasps and though his eyes were fixed on Syrin, she wasn't entirely sure he truly registered that she was there.

“Rasaad?” Her voice quaked as she said his name. “Can you hear me?”

“Syrin...” he whispered, barely audible. “Ai armiel...telere...maenen hir.” His eyes closed and it felt like her whole world was ending right then and there.

“Nononono, don't you dare do that to me, Rasaad yn Bashir. Don't you _fucking_ dare. You're not allowed to die until you've lived out every last year your human lifespan allows. That's what I signed up for when I made my choice and I will _not_ let a fucking dragon take it away,” Syrin pleaded, one hand finding her Selûnite pendant and the other grasping Rasaad's bloody shirt front. “Selûne give me strength. Let me reflect the light of the sand and sky onto this man and save his life,” she prayed under her breath, closing her own eyes. She felt magic flow through her fingers and into Rasaad's chest, but she did not let herself hope until she heard him gasp. Opening her eyes, she saw that he had done the same and was even looking at her, which was a far better sign than she could ever have expected. She reached to her belt for her Bag of Holding, but found it missing. Shit. It must have fallen off when Baeshravirlym had thrown her. She was about to get up and look for it with all due haste, but then Celthica appeared like a blessing in human form.

“Syrin!” The girl came running, clearly having disobeyed the command to flee, grasping the ranger's bag in her little hand. “Is Rasaad going to be alright?” she asked as she gave over the item and knelt down on the dying monk's other side.

“If I have anything to say about it,” Syrin replied, her voice full of determination. Propping up Rasaad's head gently with one hand, she tipped healing potion after healing potion to his lips with the other until she was certain that he was not in great pain or danger any longer. Nothing was more reassuring, however, than the sensation of his fingers closing around her arm. “Thank the gods,” she breathed, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Syrin.” His voice was much, much stronger than it had been before and he even began to move to sit up, which the ranger was all too happy to let him do. It was then that she noticed that Celthica wasn't the only one staring at them in wonder.

The battle was over and she had completely missed it. The remaining raiders had been driven off, leaving the surviving people of the convoy to stop and gaze at those who had felled the dragon with unrestrained amazement. Quite a crowd was gathering and a familiar nervousness sprang up inside Syrin. Rasaad appeared not to have any misgivings, however, because he started to get to his feet, using his wife as a crutch. Once they were both standing, Celthica began to clap enthusiastically and the rest followed suit, some even cheering.

Syrin felt no pride as she took in the gratitude and praise of the people. She instead only felt unclean and exhausted. All she wanted was a bath and some time alone, but she endured the attention, glad at least that she had done her part to save the convoy.

Eston Gaevyn came running forward, looking a little worse for wear, and pulled his daughter into a tight embrace.

“Oh, my darling child! Thank the gods! Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine, father.”

“Celthica is quite adept with a knife, _saer_ ,” Rasaad put in and the merchant raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, all the same, it seems that I am indebted to you and your wife once again. We all are.” Some of the onlookers made sounds of agreement at this.

“There is no debt. We did our duty,” Syrin proclaimed firmly, not feeling comfortable with simply accepting whatever riches these people were ready to heap upon them.

“Don't listen to her! She's manipulating you!” Everyone's heads turned at this to look upon none other than Captain Tamasryn, who seemed to have been roughed up pretty badly in the fight. There was a nasty cut above his left eye and a colourful bruise was forming along the right side of his jaw, among other things.

“Adaran? What's the meaning of this?” Gaevyn interjected with a scowl.

“She's evil! I have seen her eyes glow like a demon's! She tried to seduce me with her foul magic and when I resisted, she attacked me!” There came several gasps at this and Syrin felt Rasaad's grip on her arm tighten. Glancing over at him, she could see his nostrils flair as his jaw clenched.

“That's not true!” Celthica spat, shocking everyone. Syrin knew the girl had a spine, but this...this was on a whole other level.

“Cel? What do you know of this?” Gaevyn questioned.

“She didn't try to seduce him. He tried to kiss her and she defended herself. I saw it happen.”

“Did her eyes glow?”

“No,” Celthica replied without missing a beat and Syrin's mouth fell open. “He probably imagined it. He was drunk.”

“How can you stand but a few paces from the body of the dragon she slew and not believe that she possesses the power of the Hells? Has she put you under her spell just as her influence has so clearly addled the mind of your daughter?” Tamasryn argued. The merchant might have listened had he not mentioned Celthica, but he had and it had the effect of sparking a rage Syrin hadn't known Gaevyn was capable of.

“Get out of my sight and never speak of my daughter or these good people again.”

Tamasryn took a step forward in defiance, but other guardsmen jumped in to restrain him before he could even draw his sword and they quickly dragged him away through the crowd.

“I apologize. The Adaran Tamasryn I knew was a good man, but it seems that I did not know him as well as I thought I did. I promise he will never trouble you again,” Gaevyn told Syrin and Rasaad solemnly.

“Thank you,” was all the elf could think to say in response, somewhat stunned as she was by everything that had just happened.

“Anything you need, you have but to ask. I'm sure all of my colleagues would agree that you have earned it.” Rasaad seemed to be about to politely decline, but an elderly Calishite woman dressed in fine silks and jewelry spoke up before he could.

“You look like you could benefit from some healing and bathing. I would gladly accommodate you with both. Come.” She left no room for them to object, turning on her heel and walking off in the direction of what must have been her own caravan. She introduced herself as Massatyra Tariba yr Japhina el Darhu yi Calimport, but said that they could simply call her Baroness, and explained that she was an ice merchant. Ice from the north was apparently almost as valuable as gems in Calimport and as such, it had made her an independent and wealthy woman. She was happy to let Syrin and Rasaad use some of her water and the services of her daughter, who was a priestess of Waukeen and a talented healer.

They found Zadhi yr Tariba tending to the minor wounds of a soldier when her mother introduced her. She sent the whining warrior on his way with a tap on the shoulder and gave the young couple a bow.

“Zadhi, these people are in need of your assistance,” the Baroness informed the cleric in a tone that implied that it was more of a command than a suggestion. This woman did not mess around, it seemed. Nevertheless, Zadhi smiled cordially and beckoned Syrin and Rasaad forward.

“Come into the caravan and I will examine you both,” she said cheerfully and they obliged. Syrin insisted that she look at Rasaad first, since he was the one who had nearly died. The ranger watched as Zadhi mended multiple cracked ribs and several cuts. Rasaad didn't flinch even once the entire time, sitting their as calmly as ever, trying to have a nonverbal conversation with Syrin through his gaze.

He was clearly glad that everything had turned out as it had, because there had been so many opportunities for things to go completely south and yet here they were, both alive and suffering no permanent damage.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” Zadhi asked when she was done.

“No. I believe I am fully recovered. Thank you kindly.” Rasaad got up from the cushions he had sat upon and looked to Syrin again. “I shall go and get myself cleaned up. Our tent will be pitched when you return,” he told her, the latter part being code for “We have a lot of things we need to discuss in private.”

“Alright,” she replied as his hand brushed her shoulder before he climbed out of the extravagant caravan. She then turned back to Zadhi and sighed. “My turn, I suppose.” Reclining, she let the healer give her the same systematic treatment Rasaad had gotten. Zadhi poked and prodded, rooting out any injuries and assessing if they were superficial or serious. When she reached Syrin's stomach, she stopped and frowned. The elf expected that she was noticing the tense muscles there. It had been that way for a few days and she had figured she'd strained them while getting off her horse or something. She explained this to Zadhi, but instead of shrugging, the priestess raised her eyebrows.

“Syrin, have you been sick at all or had intense mood changes lately?”

“Er, yes, actually. Why?”

“You, _tabarifa_ , are with child,” Zadhi answered with a broad grin and Syrin's blood ran cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Amyn saelar tam gwethet san senyn." is Chondathan for "His speech is prettier than yours."; "Ai armiel telere maenen hir." is Elvish for "You hold my heart forever."; "saer" is Chondathan for "sir"; "tabarifa" is Alzhedo for "honorable female stranger".


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains discussion of unwanted pregnancy and violent racism. There is also some mildly disturbing imagery near the end.

Hour 5 Hammer 4, 1371 DR

The convoy had not gone anywhere in over a day. There had been much to do, giving proper burials to the dead and repairing the extensive damage which had been done by the attack. This had given Syrin a great deal of time to ruminate about her situation, perhaps too much time.

Just before the second dawn after the attack, she found herself standing outside the tent, alone with nothing but the whispering wind to console her. She had yet to tell Rasaad that she was carrying his child. She was too terrified of the mere concept of it to say anything at all. Some small part of her hoped that if she ignored it, it would simply go away, irrational though the idea was.

Her fear was born out of a belief she had held ever since she had learned that Bhaal was her father. She had told herself that she should never have children, that to do so would be to spread Bhaal's taint. It might even result in some unpredictable evil in the child itself. She had also gone so far as to hope that she was infertile, something which was now proven to be very much not the case.

In the face of her new condition, she had no idea what to do. She knew next to nothing about carrying a child, having had very little contact with pregnant people in her mere twenty two years of life. Her belief was telling her that she needed to find a way to get rid of this problem, but she didn't know if that was even possible and if it were, whether or not the necessary resources were at her disposal. On top of that, she wasn't even sure that she was ready to be a mother or, come to think of it, that Rasaad was prepared to be a father.

These considerations ran in circles in her mind as she gazed up at the moon that was in the process of leaving to give way to the sun. She thought of going to see Zadhi yr Tariba to ask about escaping this predicament, but she did not get the chance to take action, because Rasaad came out of the tent, looking concerned. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind and rested the side of his head against hers.

"Is everything alright? Did you have another nightmare?" he inquired in whisper. Syrin swallowed hard and thought carefully about what to say. She was not at all ready to tell him what was happening, and so despite knowing that this was not something she should keep from him, she scrambled to find some viable excuse that wasn't a flat out lie, that she might forestall things a bit longer.

"No. I'm just...I'm just afraid," she murmured in return and Rasaad frowned.

"Afraid? Of what?"

"The future. I don't know where our lives are headed anymore. The open-endedness of it all is daunting." This was not a lie. It was simply another issue that had been plaguing Syrin's thoughts recently.

"What brought this on?"

"That Elvish phrase you repeated when you were dying...I don't think you fully understand its meaning. It translates very roughly as 'you hold my heart forever', which, as you can imagine, has a special meaning to elves. When I say it, it is a promise that in all the years I might have, there will be no other but you, so strongly am I bound to you. When you say it, however, it is only a reminder of how little time you have as a human. You will be gone before I'm even old enough to be considered an adult by others of my kind and I fear that," Syrin rambled, not knowing if she could explain all of this thoroughly enough for Rasaad to fully understand what she was trying to express.

"I suppose it is time for me to reveal something to you then." This made the ranger's heart jump into her throat as she stepped away from her husband to look at him fully. He bore the serious but soft expression that Syrin had always found comforting as he continued. "Monks can achieve agelessness. Some monasteries call this 'Mastering the Four Seasons', because time no longer affects the body of a person who has gained this level of training."

"Are you...are you saying that you've attained this power?" Syrin pressed her hand to her chest in a gesture of shock. She wasn't quite able to accept what she was hearing. It was too good to be true.

"Yes. I believe I've been experiencing some of the minor effects for many months now. All the time in the world is at our fingertips," Rasaad informed her serenely and without further hesitation, she gathered handfuls of his shirtfront in her grasp and yanked him into a very long, joyful kiss that allowed her to forget her other crushing concerns for a just moment. The monk hummed in delight and smiled brightly when she finally pulled back from him. "Perhaps I should have told you sooner."

"Perhaps," Syrin replied in a teasing tone. For now, she was saved from being forced to reveal her condition. She had a bit longer to think about what to do and how to keep her building anxiety in check. Once again, she found herself wishing that Imoen were here. Her sister would understand her situation better than anyone else she knew possibly could and would handle the situation calmly. The mage would surely come up with some positive spin on the fact that a potential grandchild of Bhaal was growing inside Syrin.

Unfortunately, Rasaad was the only soul the young elf could confide in at the moment. Usually, that was more than enough, since he was her best friend and husband, but because this matter so intimately concerned him, she froze up at the mere thought of seeking his counsel. She knew that she _should_ tell him, but she just _couldn't_ , and that made her feel like she was being drawn and quartered.

"You still seem out of sorts. Is there something else on your mind?" Rasaad suddenly asked after a few moments of comfortable silence and Syrin went rigid. She had no idea what to say. She refused to lie to him, but telling the truth seemed to be just as damning an option. "Syrin?" A fresh scowl of concern came across the monk's face and she realized that she was shaking.

"I-I can't do this," she blurted out.

"I don't understand. Syrin, what's wrong?" Rasaad reached out to her, but she stepped out of his reach, shaking her head.

"I need to be alone for a little while."

"Syrin-"

"This isn't the same kind of problem as before. Please, just let me have some space." At this, a look of helplessness and rejection came across Rasaad's dusky features that twisted Syrin's insides into a knot. "I'm so sorry," she murmured before turning away from him. There was a tense beat of silence before he replied.

"When you are ready, I will be waiting," he told her calmly.

She then heard the rustle of the tent flap, telling her that he had gone back inside. Her throat clenched painfully with the wave of guilt that struck her. Her thoughts spiraled into a familiar melodrama of how much Rasaad deserved better than the monstrous mess masquerading as an elf that she was. Trying to get ahold of herself, Syrin pulled up her veil and took a few deep breaths before setting out through the camp to see if there was anything she could assist anyone with. Nothing distracted her like fixing other people's problems.

* * *

By the late afternoon, everyone finally seemed ready to get the convoy moving again. Syrin had, in her many hours spent with various caravans, helping them with seeing to their dead and whatnot, heard the merchants debate amongst each other about why the Black Raiders had been working with a dragon. Many of the northerners seemed to be of the opinion that the Raiders had foolishly made a deal with Baeshravirlym and had planned to split the rich bounty of the convoy between them. The Calishites, on the other hand, read more into it. They believed that the Sultans had contracted both parties in order to make a statement and exert control over the merchants. Syrin learned in her discussion with Rasaad immediately following the attack that the latter was a common enough occurrence that it was more than likely the case.

The ranger's thoughts were now too plagued with other worries to speak of the subject any further with her husband as they watched the many caravans, wagons, and beasts of burden uneasily begin to continue on their journey. They had barely said more than a handful of words to each other since the day had begun, but despite the strain on their relationship, Syrin was grateful that Rasaad was heeding her wish for space. She had had the opportunity to see Zadhi in the morning and learned a little more about her condition. She was just over a month along, which gave her an idea of when it had started. It had thankfully been unnecessary to tell Zadhi about her reservations. The healer had picked up on it right away and assured Syrin that there were options if she was not ready for this. Apparently her elven physiology also gave her a little more time to make a decision than a human would have, which was a blessing, to say the least.

With this is in mind, Syrin did her best to relax and put off ruminating about it for the time being. The most pressing issue at hand was getting to Calimport, a task which was growing in difficulty alongside the ethnic tension between the caravans and the general paranoia that had become prevalent throughout the convoy after the dragon attack. Still worse was the fact that Adaran Tamasryn had joined the guard of a Waterdavian arms merchant. Syrin had no idea whether he had won this position through pity or through a genuine belief in his innocence, but it was unsettling either way. At least many of the Silver Scythe guards being saved from the blue dragon had earned Rasaad significant respect, enough that some seemed to have changed their minds about him and were even willing to cast dirty looks at anyone who made disparaging comments about him. Unfortunately, they were not always there to do so.

The convoy was only a day away from Calimport when the tensions between the northerners and the Calishites reached boiling point. It began when Syrin and Rasaad were taking a silent evening walk together through the extensive campsite. They were passing by the scarlet tents of a Luskan fur and leather trading company when they witnessed a sour-faced man with coppery hair and a badly trimmed goatee storm by them, drawing a hefty longsword as he went, several burly mercenaries at his heel. The couple quickly followed him, hoping to prevent bloodshed. The man marched right up to a Calishite silk dealer.

"Give me gold for all the pelts you ruined, you slimy Calimite bastard, or you'll be paying with your blood instead!" he spat as the silk merchant froze and stared back with a look of abject terror on his face. He seemed to get over it, however, when he glanced around and was reminded that many of his own guards were nearby.

"How dare you speak to me in this way! I have done nothing to your smelly pelts!" the Calishite shot back, at which the fur trader raised his sword and his mercenaries followed suit. The silk merchant's guards responded in kind, but Syrin stepped between them before they could start a massacre.

"Stop this!" she barked and they all stopped and glared at her in astonishment. "Have you all taken leave of your senses? There is no reason for anyone here to turn to violence. Why don't you settle this like decent men instead of pouncing at each other like animals?"

"Why would I trust a single word out of a Calimite's mouth?" the Luskan growled, bearing down on Syrin. When she stood her ground defiantly, he added, "Or take orders from a woman who spreads her legs for one?" gesturing between her and her husband as he did so. This rile the Calishites, but she stood firm.

"Hold!" she told them, raising her hand. Even Rasaad, who had been about to step forward and object, stopped in his tracks upon seeing the look in her eyes. The hostility in the air at the moment was almost thick enough for Syrin to feel it tingling on her skin. "You accused this man of sabotage. Do you have proof?"

With a contemptuous huff, the Luskan produced a scrap of orange silk which was adorned on one side with golden fringe and had a hole ripped in it.

"This. I found it on a loose nail in my caravan." Syrin took this scrap from him and examined it.

" _Tabarif_ , does this match anything you own?" she questioned the silk merchant respectfully.

"It is a piece of a cowl of mine that has been missing for a few days."

"Lying snake!" the fur trader growled, riling the silk merchant and his guards again, though this time it was Rasaad who halted them.

"Daashah. Nashezofah uz. Seforah mazha khanar," he said sternly. From what little Syrin had understood, he had told them to let her handle it. They seemed willing to listen, if the slight lowering of their weapons was anything to go by.

"Look at this edge of the cloth," Syrin continued after taking a deep breath to keep herself calm in the face of so many blades. "It's not jagged like it would be if it had been torn off the cowl. It's clean, which means this piece was cut. That indicates that this was deliberate. Someone wants you to think that this man is responsible for your ruined furs. Probably with the intention of igniting conflict. In other words, you got played."

"You'd better be right, elf. When I find the person who did this, I'm going to flay them alive."

"Who would have done such a thing?" the silk merchant cut in.

"I suggest you start with everyone who has a lot to gain from making Calishites look bad." It didn't take a genius to realize exactly who she was referring to. Everyone knew about the debacle with Adaran Tamasryn at this point. "If you're quite done threatening each other now, I think we had all better get back to what we were doing before."

"Yes, although I have some business to attend to first," the Luskan grumbled and Syrin tried to not think about what was going to be said to Tamasryn as she slowly backed away, taking Rasaad by the arm as she went.

"That could have gone much worse," the monk commented when they were finally back in their tent. "We could have had a riot on our hands, but you talked them down. You never cease to amaze me, Syrin."

"I have to stay interesting somehow," she replied with a self-deprecating laugh as she lay down on their bedroll. Rasaad sat beside her and combed his fingers through her hair soothingly. He didn't need to tell her that she was being too hard on herself; the message was clear.

* * *

Celthica liked to play word games in the morning. Syrin supposed that it was the girl's way of getting them to fully wake up, if nothing else. She would hang around the couple as they were packing up their things and pose little puzzles to them. Their last morning on the road was no different.

Celthica perched on the back end of a nearby wagon and tried to get them to think of all the words that could be made with the letters in "triangle" while they folded up their tent.

"I suppose 'a' and 'I' don't count?" Syrin mused, glancing over her shoulder at her young friend.

"Nope! Has to be at least three letters!" Celthica replied cheerfully and the ranger sighed.

"How do you come up with these games?" Rasaad asked and the girl giggled.

"Well, I don't have much else to do, sitting in the caravan all day. There's no one to talk to accept Father, and all he knows how to talk about is business."

"Ah, I see. And it never occurred to you to ask your father if you could ride with one of us?" At this, Celthica's face screwed up in an expression that made it clear that she was extremely angry with herself for not having thought of it.

"I'm going to go ask him right now." She hoped down from her perch and started towards the caravan, but stopped in her tracks at the sound of several shocked screams. It had come from a ways down the convoy, but it drew everyone's attention. Instinctually, Syrin and Rasaad raced towards the source of the commotion, Celthica right behind them.

They worked their way through the crowd, which had gathered around the end of a wagon. There they found Adaran Tamasryn lying on the ground, the back of his head smashed in and the blood staining the sand around him an ugly reddish-brown. Syrin gasped and immediately covered Celthica's eyes before the girl could see. As much as the elf opposed hiding Celthica from the world, this was not something she needed to witness.

"Don't look. You won't like what you see," the ranger whispered to keep her friend from trying to pry her hands away.

Rasaad stepped forward and knelt down beside Tamasryn to examine his head. He glanced up at the wagon and then narrowed his eyes at the wound.

"He did not fall from the wagon. This was no accident. He was murdered. With a large blunt instrument it would seem," he reported, eliciting a chorus of gasps from the onlookers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, they will actually get to Calimport in the next chapter, I promise.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains racially motivated violence and a few vague Siege of Dragonspear spoilers.

Hour 7 Hammer 10, 1371 DR

A great sinking feeling took hold of Syrin as she realized who was most likely responsible for Adaran Tamasryn's murder, but before she could voice her well-founded suspicions, a man in the crowd shouted out his own opinion.

"It was one of those Calishites! It's their revenge for him trying to frame that silk dealer!" Several Calishites among the bystanders objected quite vehemently and more and more angry voices were added to the mix until Syrin began to fear violence.

"Stop! Stop it, the lot of you!" she barked, but it was too late. A Neverwintan threw a punch at a Calishite and the crowd erupted into complete chaos. The ranger swore loudly in Elvish as she quickly pulled Celthica with her through the fray, Rasaad close behind them.

"We must get Celthica back to her father's caravan," the monk advised urgently after dodging the errant swing of a splintered wood plank. The young girl slipped in her panic on a patch of deep sand, wrenching her from Syrin's grasp, but Rasaad nimbly plucked her up and set her right again. The camp was a blur as they scrambled through the spreading frenzy, trying to escape the berserk rage that seemed to have overcome half the convoy already. Twice, Syrin narrowly avoided being smashed over the head by improvised weapons.

The trio reached Syrin and Rasaad's tent and rushed inside, intending to hurriedly gather up there things, but they stopped in there tracks when they found someone already lurking within who was in the midst of placing a bloody hammer on the bedroll.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!" the elf burst out, immediately realizing what was going on here, and the scrawny little sneak looked up like a startled deer. "Listen, we've both done the framed for murder thing and if a demigod, a powerful wizard, and the Chosen of Shar couldn't fully manage it, what in the Nine Hells makes you think you can get this to work? Clearly you have no idea who you're dealing with."

Something about the way Syrin sounded far more exasperated than outraged seemed to put the fear of the gods in the miscreant before her, because he began to tremble and tried to cut his way out of the tent and make a run for it. Rasaad was far too quick for him, however, and had the frightened fellow's arms twisted behind his back before he could do little more than blink.

"I think not," Syrin sighed as she carefully plucked up the bloodied hammer and tucked it into the intruder's belt, whereupon she noticed a familiar symbol embossed on a pouch hanging from it. It was the coat of arms of the weapons dealer that had taken up Tamasryn's employment. The pieces of the puzzle clicked together in her mind. "He's your martyr. Your way to push your political views and improve business in one fell swoop."

The intruder's eyes grew wider, but he remained silent and still.

"I'm right then." The ranger's jaw clenched in disgust and he squirmed.

"P-Please d-d-don't kill me! I'll do anything!"

"Oh, I am quite sure you would." Syrin's eyes flashed yellow with the use of such an angry tone and the man gasped loudly.

"By the gods! They're right about you! You're a freak! A demon!"

"You don't know a fucking thing about me."

"Syrin!" Rasaad chided, gesturing towards Celthica, who had thus far remained a silent if frightened observer. This fortunately had the effect of allowing the elf to rein in her rage and refocus on Celthica's safety. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and addressed the intruder again.

"I'm not going to kill you, because unlike your masters, I respect the sanctity of life. Get out of here and take your murder weapon with you."

At that, Rasaad flung him from the tent and watched to make sure he had gone before he began to help Syrin and Celthica hurriedly pack up their possessions. The din of the riot was growing louder and louder with each passing moment, spurring them to move faster. Just as the couple had finished loading up their horses, the mob reached them and they were surrounded once more with total chaos.

"Father!" Celthica suddenly cried out and they looked around to see the stocky man himself running towards them, appearing as battered and panicked as the rest of the crowd. He gave his daughter a quick albeit very tight hug before addressing her bodyguards urgently.

"Go now! Get away! Get to the city and I will meet you there as soon as I can!" Syrin and Rasaad both gave curt nods at this and mounted their horses, Syrin pulling Celthica up with her. "Keep her safe!" Eston called after them as they galloped away through the destruction. Celthica clung to the horse's mane as if for dear life and Syrin could hear her fast a shallow breathing. The ranger would have offered up some words of comfort if she were not so distracted by trying to weave between rioters and frenzied beasts of burden. She even vaulted over an upturned wagon to avoid two guardsman in the midst of a bloody sword fight.

Rasaad followed close behind, fending off anyone who went after them with a long piece of a tent pole that he had snatched from a passing rioter's grasp. He may have been most skilled at using his fists as weapons, but he could also handle a staff with stunning efficiency, which certainly came in handy on horseback.

Their steeds kicked up thick clouds of sand as they escaped into the open desert, making it a bit more difficult for projectiles to be accurately aimed at them. They would have to find the road later once they had put some serious distance between themselves and the convoy.

* * *

"Are you hungry, Celthica?" Syrin asked her charge softly as she adjusted her hood to better protect herself from the scorching afternoon sun. Their pace had slowed to a lazy trot and the were all rather tired from the excitement of that morning.

"Yes," the girl admitted before giving a small yawn.

"Alright. We'll stop and rest and have something to eat." Syrin looked over to her husband, reaching out to touch his arm and get his attention. "Rasaad, let's stop for a few moments." With a nod, he brought his horse to halt, Syrin following suit, and they dismounted. Rasaad rummaged through their supplies and extracted three small, carefully wrapped bundles, handing one to Celthica and another to his wife. They each contained a handful of dried dates, not the best meal, but better than nothing. Sitting in the sand, the three of them quietly ate and looked out across the vast and terrible beauty of the desert.

"What will happen when we get to Calimport?" Celthica asked somewhat anxiously.

"We will find a reputable inn and wait there for your father to arrive," Rasaad answered. He knew better than any of them what places in the city would be safest after all.

"What if he never comes?" This was a much darker line of thought than the couple would have expected from the girl, but it seemed that even they could underestimate her maturity.

"Then we'll be your guardians until we can get you back to Waterdeep," Syrin assured after a long, tense moment of thought, and Rasaad gave a nod of agreement. To her surprise, this actually appeared to comfort the child, and it suddenly occurred to her that she and Rasaad had been better parents to Celthica in these past few tendays than her actual father.

Maybe...maybe they were more prepared for this kind of responsibility than Syrin had previously believed. With that thought, the elf's hand drifted to her stomach, feeling the tenseness there, now more conflicted than ever.

"Are you alright, Syrin?" Rasaad asked, a look of concern furrowing his brow.

"Yeah...I've just been thrown off a little by everything that's happened. The gods seemed determined to make our lives interesting."

"That they do, but if all of it has proven anything, it is that together we can handle whatever comes." The monk gave Syrin a reassuring smile and reached out to take her hand. She nodded silently and squeezed his fingers, debating with herself as she did so about when she was going to tell him what had been truly bothering her these past few days. This was not something she could hide forever and strain on her marriage was making it harder.

Celthica seemed to detect the tenseness of the situation, because she immediately wolfed down the rest of her food and got up.

"Alright, I'm ready to go," she announced and the adults followed suit, brushing sand of their clothing and returning to the horses. This time, the child sat with Rasaad, remarking that she didn't want to play favourites with Syrin, though Syrin suspected that she just wanted to use his broad back as a pillow.

"Little does she know, his chest is where the real pillow action is at," the elf thought, smiling to herself as they continued on across the desert.

It was almost night when they finally came to the gates of the great city of Calimport. Even at this time of day, the streets were packed with people and the goings on of millions, but Rasaad navigated them as easily as a fish through water. This was his natural habitat, his home, and Syrin was in awe.

Within the hour, Rasaad had led them to a _drudach_ in the Larau district (or _sabban_ , as he called it) that seemed predominantly merchant class. There, they came to a stop outside a bustling inn, which bore a sign in deep black lettering that proclaimed it the Jet Jambiya.

"Stay close to me," he instructed Celthica as they entered and she obeyed, looking a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. An elven woman with an impressive mane of thick curly black hair greeted them with a smile and a wave of her dark hand from behind the bar. There was something oddly familiar about her that Syrin could not place. "Saam, tabarifa," Rasaad responded politely, returning the greeting. He then continued to speak in Alzhedo, but far too rapidly for Syrin to pick up anything she could understand. The innkeeper nodded attentively every so often at what Rasaad was saying, occasionally glancing at Celthica, suggesting that their situation was being explained.

"I believe I have room that I can make available to you. It will be small, but it is the best I can do," the woman finally said in Common.

"That's more than enough. Thank you, _tabarifa_ ," Syrin told her gratefully.

"You are welcome. And please, call me Nefhadha." This wrung and even louder bell in Syrin's mind, but still she could not think why. Where had she heard that name before?

"Oh! Of course. I am Syrin A'Gorion. This is my husband, Rasaad yn Bashir, and our charge here is Celthica Gaevyn." At this, Nefhadha's earthy eyes went wide and her soft smile broadened into an ear-to-ear grin.

"You know my son! You know Khalid! He has written of you both often. Please tell me, how is he? I have not heard from him in some time."

A heavy sinking feeling hit Syrin as everything fell into place. She knew that name because Khalid had been Khalid yn Nefhadha. This was his mother. And she didn't know that he was dead.

"I think we had better move this conversation somewhere less public," the ranger suggested, trying very hard to keep her voice calm and even. Nefhadha's face fell and she quietly instructed one of the barmaids to take charge before leading her new guests up to their room. The moment the door was closed, Syrin spoke again. "When was the last time you received a letter from Khalid?"

"Two years ago. He told me of how you had successfully ended Caelar Argent's crusade and how proud he is of the woman you've become. He thinks of you as a daughter, you know." If there was anything that could make this even more painful for Syrin, it was that. Being reminded of how much Khalid had cared about her was like ripping open an old wound that had only just half-healed.

"Nefhadha, I...I don't know how to say this. Khalid is...he's gone." With these words, a light in the innkeeper's eyes died and Syrin was sure that the poor woman's entire world had come crashing down around her. Nefhadha stumbled into the chair by the small window, one hand at her chest and the other over her mouth.

"H-How? My son...I-I don't...I..."

"Khalid died because he was with me, protecting me. Man named Jon Irenicus killed him," Syrin admitted, feeling compelled to be completely open with Nefhadha about why Khalid was gone. Tears began to stream profusely down the woman's cheeks and it took every ounce of Syrin's self control not follow suit. "And I made that monster answer for it. Twice over."

"I think...in my heart, I always knew, after I stopped getting letters," Nefhadha wept before taking a deep, shuddering breath and wiping the tears from her face. "Thank you. Now I finally know."

"Will you be alright? Is there anything we can do for you?" Rasaad offered compassionately.

"I will be fine. In time. I knew Khalid led a dangerous life. I knew something like this might happen. I just...one can never truly be prepared. And you have already done more than enough for me. All I wish now is to hear more about why you have come to Calimport."

With all the grace and wisdom of a hardworking elf who had clearly seen a couple of centuries already, Nefhadha pulled herself back together. Syrin knew well enough that it was an illusion to hide the unspeakable grief beneath, having done it herself many times, but she respectfully let it be and began to relay everything the innkeeper wanted to know.

She was delighted to hear that Syrin and Rasaad were newly married and on their honeymoon and listened with fascination as they recounted their adventures since leaving Imnesvale. Celthica enthusiastically began chipping in once they got to the part where she came in. Nefhadha seemed to find the girl very sweet and brave and said as much, to Celthica's great pleasure.

"You were taken on a twisted path indeed to get here. You are lucky to have gotten away from that riot as you did and you did right by bringing the little one to the Jet Jambiya. I will make sure you are all well looked after and I will keep an eye out for any news of Lord Gaevyn," Nefhadha promised, already treating them like family.

"If you do not mind me asking, how did you become the owner of the Jet Jambiya? You were not when I was a child," Rasaad said, folding his hands behind his back in the way that he did whenever he was being inquisitive. Syrin had always found it rather endearing.

"Now that is a bit of a story. Before I worked here, I was a beggar who spent her days trying to evade slavers. And before that, I was a servant in Manshaka in the house of the man who would be my son's father. When Khalid was born, I agreed to leave for Calimport on the condition that he remain to be raised as Khalid yn Nadim el Taloreem yi Manshaka. My boy grew up and became a respected military officer, but after an incident at one of the arenas, he was transferred to Calimport. He found me and got me a job as a barmaid here. At one point, my employer tried to beat me for giving out food to urchins, which resulted in his death and my sudden ownership of the place. I have had it for many years now," Nefhadha explained, her voice becoming slightly strained whenever she referred to Khalid.

"And you run it quite well, by the looks of things," Syrin praised and a small smile returned to the innkeeper's face.

"Thank you. I do try my best. But come, what kind of host am I that I have not yet seen you fed?" With a burst of energy, Nefhadha stood up and beckoned for her three new guests to follow her. She led them back downstairs, through the crowd of patrons, and into the kitchens, where there was an empty table adjacent to several stacked barrels of fine ale. The cooks greeted them cheerfully and went about their business as if it was completely normal for Nefhadha to bring people back here. "Please, take a seat. I shall prepare something for you."

Celthica and the couple did as they were bayed and watched as Nefhadha flitted around the kitchen, putting together what would be their first proper meal since leaving Memnon. There were lots of many different foods laid out before them, spiced lamb, steamed vegetables, dates, flatbread, seasoned turnips, just to name a few. It was far more than they could reasonably be expected to eat. Celthica was so hungry it seemed that even the vegetables earned her notice. Syrin strangely felt thrice as famished as the girl and took some of everything. To the surprise of all, she kept going until every dish was clean.

"Already eating for two, are you?" Nefhadha asked with a grin and Syrin froze.

"I, uh...I..." she struggled to form a coherent sentence that didn't admit that she was but wasn't a lie. Celthica looked on in confusion, but Rasaad...Syrin could feel Rasaad's gaze on her and it made her want to flee.

"Syrin?" he addressed her, but she did not answer, or indeed even move. She was, by her estimation, in her own personal hell.

"Oh! Did you not know?" Nefhadha brought a hand up to her mouth, realizing her mistake.

"Know what?" Rasaad pressed.

"She is with child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and finally the truth comes out. Prepare for ~drama~. Alzhedo notes: saam = (greeting), drudach = neighbourhood/precinct.


End file.
